The Bow and the Stone
by Sildae
Summary: "The ancients spoke of it. It is the heart of this fierce land. It is carried in the wind. Born of our legends and when we are put to the test, it is the one thing that we must always be." -King Fergus of Clan DunBroch. Takes place two years after the events of the movie.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Brave, its characters, and its images are ©Disney Pixar.**

* * *

The Bow and the Stone

Prologue

* * *

The land carved by the northern seas could never be mistaken as something tame.

It knew well its own ferocity – the pitiless, ice-cold winds that carved its hills, the ruthlessness of its seasons that sharpened fang and antler of its own beasts. It reveled in its callousness and raged against those who dared tempt its power. It was as wild as its storm-tossed waves and as deeply scarred as its mountains, and it embraced its brutality as only the eternal could.

Yet it also basked in its own vanity. It exulted in its vibrant, stark beauty, gloated shamelessly of its haunted forests and mirror-still lochs. It savored secrets and mysteries as a doe savored the spring growth.

And in the heart of the land, despite its gloriously ill temper, it bore itself as a guardian, as a fierce protector to those who still gladly claimed the fragrant purple heaths and craggy stones as home. The land was its own finest stronghold, a proud fortress of impassable cliffs, deep shadows, and tangled, impenetrable webs of superstition.

But as is the way of mankind, there were those who only saw the land as an enemy to be conquered. Defeated. Subjugated.

And for its people – as fierce and free as the roaming beasts and as tempestuous as winter's storms – they could only meet their fate at the edge of a blade.


	2. Chapter 1: Of Gatherings

**A/N: Brave, its characters, and its images are ©Disney Pixar.**

**While I've thoroughly enjoyed researching for this, I've taken many liberties with history to keep the spirit of the movie. I've also attempted to keep the general tone of the movie in mind, but as the story moves, it will likely be closer to 'Chronicles of Narnia,' in terms of danger, action, and violence. (For example, there is no way I'd let my five-year old see Prince Caspian, as much as I love it.)**

**But then, Brave featured a massive pile of bones, a near beheading, and a violent bear fight … but I suppose that's beside the point.**

**Thank you to those who reviewed or added this story to their read lists. The previous entry was ridiculously short, and your faith is much appreciated. Such is the fate of a prologue. :)**

* * *

The Bow and the Stone

Book 1: Dragon Rising

Ch 1 – Of Gatherings

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In the two years following Clan DunBroch's brush with magic, very few moments had been out of the ordinary – much to the triplet princes' dismay. Stealing pies, tarts, and other assorted baked goods was merely commonplace; torturing Maudie with well-placed bear figurines (and a great use of shadows) wasn't nearly amusing enough anymore.

Perhaps blame could be laid on the new woodsmith that King Fergus had welcomed to the clan; the triplets took an inordinate amount of pleasure in studying the man's designs for protecting the castle.

But the three scorned the thought of imitating another's style. It would be too far beneath them to settle for less than an original creation.

And so, with a great deal of anticipation, Hubert, Harris, and Hamish readied themselves for the night's revelries. Which, of course, they weren't invited to.

With all the dignity and decorum befitting a proper princess, Merida slipped into her room and gently shut the door. Only then did she let loose an explosive (and entirely unladylike) sigh of relief as she threw herself back against the heavy panels, thankful to _finally _have a moment's peace.

It was only then that she realized her room was already occupied by none other than her mother, who – judging by the hawk-like glare she currently wore as she stared down at Merida's loom – was _not _in the best of moods.

"Mum!"

Queen Elinor gave her daughter only a cursory glance before turning back to the loom, upon which draped a long, pearly white dress. "Yes, dear?"

"Wha- ah. What are you doing here?" Merida stammered. "I thought you were in the kitchens. Preparations and all that?" – exactly which she'd been escaping – "Calming Maudie down from one of her fits?"

At that last question, Elinor lifted her head, one elegant eyebrow arching skyward. "Maudie is always having a fit over one thing or another. Shall I rest the blame for this particular instance at your feet?"

Merida blinked innocently.

Elinor rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the needle in her hand. "The whelps, by now, have been returned to the stable. No harm was done to all the food prepared for _tonight_." The queen stressed that particular detail, as if Merida needed reminding. "Maudie was in hysterics for a surprisingly short amount of time. Her dress, however, was a complete loss."

Merida bit her bottom lip, but couldn't keep the corners of her mouth from twitching upward. She wouldn't dare respond to that.

"You will, of course, provide her with a suitable replacement, in due time."

Merida knew better than to argue. She simply murmured a quick, "Yes, mum," as she moved closer to the loom, watching her mother's hands move with smooth efficiency as they straightened and gathered the silky material. The fabric seemed to shimmer in the sunlight slanting into her room, and Merida noticed the intricacy of the gold thread lacing across the neckline and waist; however, was her mother's skill with needle and thread that momentarily enthralled her now, as it always had before.

And then the realization of the dress' presence in her room clunked into place.

"Ach, Mum. Another new dress?"

"Of course, Merida."

Merida bit back a sigh of frustration. She gestured wildly at the blue wool she currently wore. "What's wrong with this one? It fits perfectly. And it's my favorite!"

Which were the only reasons Merida needed, in her opinion.

Elinor sighed as she straightened and turned to look directly at her daughter. "You are correct, Merida. There is nothing wrong with that ... frock."

Merida's exultation at her mother's admission was only slightly dampened by the "frock" comment, but she deflated as her mother continued.

"Tonight is, however, a formal event. As always, you are the princess. You must dress accordingly."

A protest bubbled up on Merida's lips, but died as Queen Elinor reached out and covered Merida's hands with her own. Her mother's eyes softened and a smile played at her lips. "Merida, I'm not asking you to find a suitor tonight – or to lead the clans in dancing – or, well, much of anything, really, besides your presence in a suitable dress. I _hope_—" She paused, lifting her eyebrow in her perceptive way, her smile gentle – "that you will enjoy yourself. I know you love to dance." Elinor patted Merida's hands, and the red-headed princess slumped slightly in defeat.

"Ach, all right, Mum." There were certain battles Merida had – finally – learned not to fight.

Elinor chuckled as she released Merida's hands and turned back to the dress. "I hope you've noticed that I'm loosening it for you. I'm telling myself that you'll be able to dance more easily this way."

She glanced again at Merida, her brown eyes dancing with laughter. "Although I suppose one could shoot arrows, if one needed to, if I've done so correctly."

Merida giggled (she couldn't help herself), and jumped forward to give her mother a hug and a quick peck in the cheek. "Thank you, Mum."

Queen Elinor shooed her daughter away. "Now go fetch Maudie and tell her you need hot water for your bath. You smell like Angus."

As Merida headed for the door, she huffed her protest over her shoulder. "I happen to like the way my horse smells."

"So do flies, dear."

Merida laughed as she trotted off to find the castle's beleaguered mistress of the kitchens, her mother's voice following her out into the hall with one last remonstration.

"And you are _not_ to ruin your dress this time!"

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The great hall of DunBroch gleamed in the warm light cast by countless candelabras. Newly finished tapestries, every one of them bear-themed in some way, draped along the walls between each torch-filled sconce. The scarred wood of the four great tables - all tucked close to the walls to leave plenty of room in the middle of the hall - were polished to a deep, rich glow, and every piece of metal was burnished to an almost alarming shine.

The hall even smelled clean, a feat that was almost impossible in a land prone to heavy mist, fog, and all things mildew enjoyed (which, at times, included the menfolk).

"Er, Mum, are you sure you aren't expecting the King of England?"

Elinor's reply was a bit more forceful than necessary. "I am most certainly _not_."

The two had been standing on the gallery above the hall, admiring the effect of two week's extremely thorough scrubbing, but now moved down to help set about the final preparations. Queen Elinor was beginning to think she'd outdone herself. The amount of bear décor alone was completely outrageous, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from chuckling at the thought.

It would do quite nicely to have the clans reminded at every turn that they swore fealty to the bear king _and_ bear queen.

The games they'd held two years ago for her daughter's aborted betrothal had become an ideal festival for their young kingdom. While the games had a history longer than anyone's memory, it hadn't typically been organized between the clans of their land. Now, it provided the perfect framework to let the far-flung tribes remember their alliances and renew friendly rivalries.

Nothing like a bit of ale, carousing, hunting, and random bouts of wrestling to keep their rowdy men happy. It was male bonding at its finest.

It was time, however, for Elinor to extend her fingers and ideas a bit further into the matter. The past years had featured only a select group of men from the other clans; this year, she'd invited everyone, womenfolk included. And while she knew that not everyone could come – some had to stay and guard their keeps and cattle, of course – the clans' lords, ladies, and family would arrive within moments.

In a small corner of her mind, Elinor dared hope that the ladies would have some impact on Merida. Sometimes it took a bit of outside influence to make any distinct impression on one's children.

She glanced aside at her daughter, who practically glowed in her pale gown, her hair trussed into a fiery corona around her head before cascading gloriously down her back in a single, barely-tamed cord. The girl also happened to be juggling bits of cheese to the delight of several young clansmen.

"It would take a miracle," Elinor muttered under her breath.

The sound of masses marching toward the keep swelled outside the hall as the herald peered out through the great doors. Startled, Elinor started for the thrones, even as Fergus tromped in from the kitchens roaring with laughter, bits of chicken dangling from his beard, with the triplets trailing after him, each with distinctly mischievous grins on their faces – Elinor made a mental note to find out why later – and then Merida managed to get her unruly halo caught in a candelabra – and suddenly, Elinor had them all settled on their thrones, minus chicken and singed hair, as the three other clans exploded into the hall in swirls of tartan and wails of bagpipes.

Elinor was only able to notice that the lords, as usual, seemed to be ferociously marching to victory (or in other words, to be first to the thrones), and that their ladies, all ramrod straight and elegant, were somehow keeping up, before her husband had sprung back out of his seat, his arms thrown wide. Out of a great deal of practice, Elinor tipped her head a little to the side. Fergus' great ham of a hand whizzed by her crown.

"Anotha' year, and here we are again!" he yelled above the bagpipes, which trailed off disconsolately as the clans stopped before the king. But of course, words then failed him.

Elinor quickly rose to stand beside her husband. "Welcome, my lords and ladies," she began, as Fergus echoed her at opportune times. "Welcome to all our brave clansmen! We have come together to celebrate our unity, our continued fellowship, and above all the strength of our kingdom built upon the bonds of brotherhood."

She gestured to the three clans. "Now, please, my lords and ladies, and our brothers in arms, join us at our tables." She stepped aside very slightly, again avoiding Fergus' hand as it, too, gestured—"May we eat, drink, and dance this night, and on the 'morrow, show one another the greatest strength of the Highlands!"

Men roared their approval, the bagpipes inflated again, and boots thumped appreciatively against flagstones.

And while the women – queen, princess, lady, and daughter alike – took their seats with dignity, the men (as always) fell to the tables like ravening beasts.

Elinor smiled. There was some comfort in knowing that her family wasn't alone in appalling table manners.


	3. Chapter 2: And Scatterings

**A/N: Brave, its characters, and its images are ©Disney Pixar.**

**Thank you, readers and reviewers! Your support is greatly appreciated. To the reviewer who asked, this story revolves around the whole family, and will eventually wander away from the castle to deal with other characters featured in the movie (as well as some extras). Most of the characters I'll include later have ties to Scottish history. Cake to whoever catches on to their counter-parts, literary or historical, when the time comes.**

* * *

The Bow and the Stone

Book 1: Dragon Rising

Ch 2 – … And Scatterings

* * *

Between the sausage-and-apples and roasted boar's head, Merida managed to secure a mincemeat pie. She was rather proud of herself for that, sandwiched as she was between her father and Lord MacGuffin. She could barely see her own plate between the massive arms on either side of her – not to mention all the other elbows flying around the table.

Even with the extra limbs and general chaos, dinner was never to be considered simply an affair for stuffing one's gob. It was, perhaps more importantly, a time to regale each other with the most outlandish tales possible. Merida was proud to note her family's tales bested most anyone's. Better yet, they were (mostly) true.

On her right, her father had once again started his tale of Mor'du, complete with a waving ham-joint.

"—And his face! Scarred with one dead eye—!"

"Aye," Lord Macintosh cut in from across the table, leaning over and grabbing the ham out of the king's hand. "But what takes it all was how 'e threw us all about that night like teensy pins! What a demon that bear was!" He emphasized his opinion with a practiced flick of the ham.

Merida smothered a laugh as she felt her father sag in disappointment. He hated for his story to be interrupted.

"Queen Elinor!" Merida heard another voice; she was almost certain it belonged to one of Lord Macintosh's two daughters, hidden from Merida's sight by the king's bulk. "Tell us the stories are true! Were you really turned into a great bear by some gammy witch, then?"

Merida heard her mother chuckle enigmatically. "Magic does have a way of creating the oddest of tales."

"Come now, Elinor!" King Fergus boomed (Merida winced), quickly regaining his enthusiasm. "Tell them all how my wee queen fought the demon-bear with her bare—" irony, Da? "—hands!"

"_Fergus_."

Merida couldn't help but giggle. The queen was determined to downplay that particular part of it all; her father would rather force it into the realm of legend forevermore. She decided it was time for a bit of interference. Her mother couldn't cover the castle with bear figurines and tapestries and not indulge everyone in the story, even if it was over the dinner table (where her mother had some especially odd notions of propriety).

"Come on, Mum," she retorted, with enough sass to know she'd hear about it later, as she leaned forward, peering past her father's bulk to grin impishly at her mother. "Ye were truly a hero that night!" She turned to the others at the table and lowered her voice dramatically. "Her claws, they were longer than a man's sword – her fangs, sharper than mine own arrows!"

Merida wormed her arm out from where it was stuck at her side and clawed at the air above her plate. "With one great roar, she ripped the ropes that bound her right out of a hundred men's hands. Not one man could stand against the demon-bear, but the queen—!" She paused for effect, looking up and down the table. "Mor'du had me in his jaws, and not one o' those arrows or spears had he felt in his thick hide – but no! He would not taste my blood that night!"

Merida could almost feel the heat of her mother's disapproving glare, but the rest of the table was satisfyingly captivated. "The queen took the demon bear and – smash!" She whacked her father's hand hard enough to slam it atop his still-full platter, scattering sausages and roasted bits of mutton into the air. "—Down he went beneath the greatest of the standing stones!"

"Aye!" roared the men at the table while the ladies gasped appreciatively.

Warming to her tale, Merida went on, "And up from that demon corpse arose a spirit – but, no, not any commoner was that changeling! A prince he was, long enslaved, and now free to wander our own forest paths on the misty eve—"

Her mother, however, was less than amused. "That is quite enough, Merida."

Merida, arm still outstretched, quickly decided she was done. She snatched up a venison sausage as it rolled by and popped it into her mouth.

"Oh, let the girl tell her tale, Elinor," her father said affectionately, beaming down at her. To the other ladies at the table, Fergus went on, "Our princess took on Mor'du all by herself, ya' know! My wee lassie, standing all alone before him, firing arrows at the ugly brute—" He trailed off, his face suddenly arrested, as if the memory of that moment was more painful than he had realized.

"Aye, what a storyteller and warrior our princess is," Lord MacGuffin spoke up beside her in the king's sudden silence. She nearly collapsed when he clapped an enormous hand on her shoulder, and he leaned his head close to hers (squishing her further in the process). "Y'know, the best remembered warriors are also the best storytellers. That a' way, even if a man be a coward, all that is remembered is his greatest tale!"

Not exactly the greatest of compliments, either to her storytelling or battle skills, but Merida let that slide – especially as she could barely breathe by that point.

"Da', thait's naht faier," called a voice from the other side of MacGuffin. Merida, despite the spots swimming in her eyes, recognized it as Aneirin's, the massive lord's equally huge son. She'd noticed over the past couple of years that he'd become slightly more easily understood. Slightly. "Ahur princess is'a true warriahr, better'n'us all, she be, wit'that arrow'n'bow."

Merida gasped for breath as Lord MacGuffin leaned away from her to grip his son's shoulders. The men around the table again roared their approval. Inwardly, she was glad they all looked at in now as a source of pride (and a bit of a joke). The image of the clans boiling at each other's throats was still firmly ingrained in her mind.

"Ooh – yes! Tell us that story!" chirped one of MacGuffin's daughters, who sat directly across from Merida. She marveled at how petite the girl was, compared to her father and brother. "Of how ye' bested all our brothers, and split an arrow in twain!"

"Oh, not that again." Young Gavan Macintosh, who had been the most irritated suitor on that occasion, slumped back against his chair and glanced sourly at Merida – but with a half-grin that slightly ruined the effect. He then leaned toward her conspiratorially (as if half a table wasn't between them) and winked. "That's all I hear about at home, you know. How a princess knocked off me own boots with her arrow. Or some such."

Merida had a moment's difficulty not rolling her eyes, while the rest of the table laughed. She looked to the MacGuffin girl, who was watching her with wide-eyed wonder. "I've been practicing with my bow since I was a wee lass. It's always been my favorite thing to do – even more than practicing with me sword, but that's close to it." The girl gasped and giggled with

"Aye, but what about your other talents?" Lady Macintosh interjected, her voice just a touch off from condescending. She sat stiffly next to her son, her plate untouched. "Surely you play a hand-harp as well as you shoot an arrow." The raven-haired lady reminded Merida vividly of an eagle. Proud, dark, and eternally scowling.

"Ah…" Merida glanced down the table at her mother, who seemed to make a point of not meeting her daughter's eyes. "No, my lady. I am quite incompetent when it comes to musical things."

"Hm."

"Well, then," Gavan said, leaning even further toward Merida; she wondered if he realized his bare chest was about to dip into a pudding. "There's something I'll best you at!" He sat back with a satisfied smirk, hands behind his head. "I'll have you know that I'm as good with a lute as I am with me sword."

"Not at all then? Hah!" laughed Lord Dingwall, from his place next to Queen Elinor.

"Come, now, Da," said Dingwall's eldest daughter, Sulwen. "None 'o that at the table." The lady was a sweetly dreamy sort, much like her little brother. Sulwen had become, for all court purposes, lady to her clan after the death of her mother – and after Lord Dingwall utterly refused to remarry. Merida realized with a start that Sulwen had been three years younger than Merida was now when the girl had taken the mantle of Lady Dingwall, with all its roles and responsibilities.

Merida couldn't even begin to imagine _that_ sort of responsibility, even if she vaguely knew her future as a princess bore an even greater amount of duties. It wasn't a thought she particularly wanted to dwell on.

"Why not?" Dingwall's gruff voice was as irritable as always. "Nothin' wrong with pointing out a popinjay! Lute? Hah!"

Lord Macintosh and his son had both half-risen out of their seats, their faces furious, when another voice piped up. "What I wonder about is why Mor'du wanted to kill you so badly."

The table went silent, and it took Merida a moment to realize it was Wee Dingwall who'd spoken. It took her another moment to realize he was gazing at her with an oddly contemplative expression on his face.

"Whatever do you mean?" Queen Elinor said, sounding slightly baffled – and defensive.

"Well," he went on, in that same thoughtful tone, "he wasn't really after any of the rest of us."

Macintosh scoffed. "He threw us around like pebbles!"

"Aye. But he didn't really go for us. He was goin' for her." Wee – Ian, Merida reminded herself – Dingwall nodded in her direction. "We all saw it. He was goin' to kill her. But why?"

Merida, for perhaps the first time in her life, had no idea what to say. Even when she'd faced down the lords, she had some semblance of a speech in mind – or, mostly, that she needed to own up to her behavior.

She also wasn't quite sure which surprised her more: Ian's question, or the fact that he'd said more than two sentences at a time.

And then came another surprise, as her mother spoke up for her, "When I was … affected … by the magic, Merida and I traveled to an ancient ruin. It was—" Her voice grew thick, and delicately cleared her throat. "It was Mor'du's home. He found us while we were there."

Merida fought a chill that skittered suddenly down her spine. That particular memory she'd prefer to forget.

Queen Elinor seemed to want to finish the tale as quickly as possible, and went on in a clipped rush, "Perhaps he wanted to punish whoever dared invade his home."

Merida suddenly realized that everyone had gone completely still, their eyes fixed on her mother as they absorbed this bit of the story – all except Ian, who still watched her with unnerving intensity. It was the small part of the tale that she and her mother hadn't told to anyone else, even her father. Granted, her father had refused to listen to some aspects of the story – especially the bits that had brushed his family too close to death, or involved too much magic for his comfort.

The queen forced a smile. "But that is done."

And really, she had no reason to mull over Mor'du's actions, or supposed actions. He was as dead as the stone that crushed him. There was nothing to it, now.

And, rising, her mother effectively ended all conversation, as every man, woman, and child followed their queen's example. "Now," she announced expansively, a determined smile on her face as she turned from table to table, "may we dance!"

On cue, several bards (who Merida now noticed had been tucked back in the minstrel's gallery) took up their harps and wooden flutes. With a bellowing laugh, and all the lack of ceremony her mother detested, her father dragged her mother away from the table and swung her onto the open floor and into a lively country fling. It took only a moment before the Queen was laughing along with her husband.

Merida only had a moment to admire the happy couple, her mother's garnet-colored dress swirling and radiant in the torchlight, before Lord MacGuffin plucked her from her seat and twirled her out beside her mother, where she laughed and jigged and circled the men as other lads and ladies followed suit.

Dancing had a magic all its own, and if she couldn't be firing arrows into the sunset, at least she would be leaping on her toes among the candles – except for the small matter of keeping said toes away from Aneirin as she swirled and leapt through the line on his hand – then Gavan, who mostly wanted to get absurdly close (how could one dance with someone breathing on one's neck?) – and then Lord Dingwall, who tottered and hopped around like a wooden toy, and she had fight back her laughter, without much success.

Men and women alike called for their favorite country reels, and occasionally Queen Elinor interjected a more stately court dance. Merida dragged Lord MacGuffin's wife, Giorsala, onto the floor for one of those; the lady was great with child, but enjoyed herself immensely through the slower paces while her husband hovered close by.

All in all, it really was a surprisingly wonderful evening. She was even starting to quite like her new dress, especially the way her hair glowed against the pale fabric – an effect she admired whenever her thick braid draped itself over her shoulder, despite the curls that had fought free.

After a good while, though, she noticed her mother had left the dance floor. Glancing around, Merida saw her and Maudie deep in conversation – usually a sign of some trouble. She also realized, with a sudden surge of alarm, that she hadn't seen her brothers in some time. With a breathless laugh and a cheerful curtsy, she begged off Aneirin's hand – he'd sought her for another set – before trotting to her mother's side.

"I don't know, m'lady!" Maudie's voice had reached a grating screech that, thankfully, couldn't likely be heard over the bagpipes now playing. Merida knew immediately, whatever the matter, it indeed concerned the boys.

"I know you said ye' would send 'em to me, after eatin' an' all. But you didnae, and I thought maybe they were to stay. I'm so sorry, m'lady!"

Elinor put a hand to her temple and briefly closed her eyes. "Wherever they are and whatever they are doing, Maudie, it was not your fault. It was my own. I've been quite distracted lately."

Merida finally spoke up. "The boys? They're missing?"

Her mother sighed as she turned to Merida. She opened her mouth – but then froze that way, her gaze focused past Merida's shoulder, a look of dawning horror fixed on her face.

Next to the queen, Maudie squeaked and pressed her hands to her mouth, her eyes bulging as she, too, stared over Merida's shoulder. "Ooh, I'd wondered where all the tarts went."

With a horrible sense of dread, Merida slowly turned.

And then promptly wished she hadn't.

A miniature trebuchet, perfectly sized for three five-year old boys, was wheeling through the great doors. Perched atop it was Hamish, an awfully familiar grin on his face. In the next moment, he had hopped off – and the trebuchet had launched. And launched again. And again.

Merida groaned.

All manner of little cakes, pies, and tarts went flying through the air, smashing into lords and ladies, lads and lasses alike. It took a full second before the dancers realized they were under attack, and then the women scattered, shrieking, while the men stared either down at the cakes attached to their tartans, or at the pastries perched atop their neighbor's heads like bonnets.

"HAMISH!"

Merida didn't think she'd ever heard her mother yell that loud before.

"_BOYS_!"

Now that volume and voice, she recognized. Both of her parents thundered across the hall, only to be halted by a storm of pie.

Merida quickly surveyed the situation and felt a grin spreading across her face. Well. It was family tradition to join the fun, after all.

"Oi! Harris!" Quickly scooping up a fallen cake, she launched it perfectly over the hall – and fully into the face of her little brother, who squealed with glee. The other two fired back promptly, and she – along with her new dress – found herself peppered by something full of blueberry jam, much to the delight of Gavan and Aneirin, who both stood nearby.

She could see Lord Dingwall pointing and laughing at her crumb-covered parents, and then Lord Macintosh dumped a pie on his head, after which the whole ordeal disintegrated into a brawl of epically messy proportions, while the visiting ladies peered from the relative safety of the balcony.

And although her mother fumed late into the night – she certainly knew, as she was up far past the setting moon picking bits of blackberry out of Elinor's hair – Merida thought the whole evening went quite well.

Feasting, dancing, and fighting. It was, after all, the Highland tradition.


	4. Chapter 3: Vane and Grace

**A/N: Brave, its characters, and its images are ©Disney Pixar.**

**Merida still has a lot of growing up to do, poor lass. As they say, it's lonely at the top – in more ways than one. As an aside, I'd put Young MacGuffin at eighteen in the movie, so he would be twenty in this story.**

**A huge thank you to the reviewers! Your encouragement always makes it worth posting. :) And to all the readers, I'm so very glad you're joining me on this journey. Every one of you is greatly appreciated, and I hope you continue to enjoy my little offering to the fan-fiction world.**

The Bow and the Stone

Book 1: Dragon Rising

Ch 3: Vane and Grace

At the eastern corner of the castle, where the forest and the sea met with particularly dramatic cliffs and steep, tree-covered knolls, Merida had meticulously plotted a new archery range. She was enormously proud of it: the targets were placed at varying distances deep among the trees and rocks, some of them swinging freely on tethers or tucked into tiny crevices. Between the shifting light, the constant gusts of wind, and the seemingly ever-changing terrain, she considered herself suitably challenged.

The aftermath of the witch's magic had given her a great deal to think about, and she was determined to best at least one of those hard-learned lessons: Always make the shot.

_Always._

This range was, of course, nothing compared to the paces she'd set for Angus – but she couldn't well race around heath and forest, firing arrows, while an extra three clans wandered the castle lands.

Chances are she'd really incite a war, this time.

Early on the morning of the games, before the sun had even peeked over the surrounding mountains, Merida had escaped to her private range, bow in hand and a quiver full of arrows on her hip. The smooth yew limb she held was a balm to her tired mind, and the feel of every fine grain and slight imperfection was as familiar as an old friend. She savored the quiet morning for a moment, staring out over the sea loch and listening to the far off call of gulls and low rush of water. Finally, she retreated from the cliff++++++++++++'s edge and settled into a familiar stance, nocking an arrow and drawing back in one fluid motion.

And then, with a prickle along the back of her neck, she realized she was being watched.

After smooth release, and the accompanying thud of metal sinking into wood, Merida turned to face her visitor, a little well of irritation bubbling up inside her – only to feel it immediately die away. At the lee of the castle, where the shadows were still deep enough to nearly hide her, stood one of Lord MacGuffin's daughters, gaping in apparent wonder at Merida's shot. Merida recognized her as the lass who'd been so interested in last night's dinner stories.

"'Ello, there," she called.

The girl didn't move. She did, however, continue to gape.

Merida stifled a sigh. "Well, come on out, then. I don't bite."

Slowly, the lass stepped into the spreading morning light, thankfully no longer gaping, but still obviously nervous – or perhaps terrified; Merida couldn't really tell. She was a slightly-built girl, pale and blue-eyed, with hair the color of straw. Merida was almost certain she was in her tenth year, but again marveled at how tiny she was compared to the men in her family ... and apparently just as shy as her brother.

But then the girl spoke, quickly dispelling that belief. "I'm so sorry, m'lady! I was told by that herald – Dorrell, but a'course, you already know yer own herald – that you'd built yerself a fine range, even though you t'were a lady an' all – no, I'm sorry, yer more than a lady, yer the princess! And that you go ridin' in the forest, like a wild beast was a-chasin' ya, and you couldn't ever be caught, like a real warrior! But he said you'd built this, 'ere, a'course, and how clever it was, that you was to be the best archer in all the land—"

Merida, slightly dumbfounded by the amount of chatter the little thing was capable of (especially this early in the morning), could only stare as the girl began to walk to and fro, still just on the outer edges of the castle's shadow. Her arms waved emphatically with every point she made – or attempted to make.

"—And then I saw you leave the gates, and I thought to meself, here's a perfect chance to see the warrior princess, and I won't be told to go back and act like a proper lady, 'cos me mum is still a-bed – I'm to have another brother or sister, y'know – but me da thinks it's a fine idea to learn to fight, and me brother, a'course, he's strong as a bull, and he can't stop talking about you—"

Merida winced. It was hard to imagine the girl's brother talking about much of anything – let alone, about her. She held up her hands, hoping the girl would at least pause for breath. She had the sudden sensation that she was attempting to stop an oncoming storm.

"Oh 'eavens, me brother! He'll be so embarrassed to 'ear me talkin' this way – to you! He thinks you've got the right of it, an' a right an' proper princess – an' one day queen o' our lands – God bless yer mum, Queen Elinor, a'course! He thinks yer quite the—"

"Stop!" Merida yelled, starting to feel a bit panicky. The girl halted mid-word, her mouth still open, although from shock or wounded sensibilities, Merida wasn't sure.

"Ah." With another burst of panic, Merida realized she had no idea what the girl's name was. The clans' entire families never came to court; that was left to the emissaries or the lords themselves. And while she vaguely recalled sitting through her mother's lessons about the extended families – well, she certainly didn't remember anything about them.

She then realized she was holding her hands together at her chest, just like her mother did, and immediately dropped them to her side.

Merida forced herself to be cheerful. "Well! You, ah, found me," she finished lamely, and then tentatively went on, "I'm sorry, lass, but I don't recall your name."

The girl giggled, obviously not the slightest bit insulted. "Elvina. Me da' says that means 'young warrior,' and I think it fits quite fine, although I donnae know what I'll think of it when I'm old like me mum!" She giggled again, and Merida couldn't help but join her. The girl's good cheer was infectious.

Unfortunately, Merida still couldn't escape the awkwardness of it all. She highly doubted she'd get any peace, now – and it would be ridiculously uncomfortable to have the wide-eyed girl watching her while she practiced.

But she had no idea what to do with the child. While her little brothers adored her – and she adored them – there weren't many children around the castle that she'd gotten to know. It didn't help that most mothers in the clan considered her a wild hellion to be avoided at all costs – which had included girls her own age when she was a wee lass, but that was beside the point. "So, ah. Do you know much about archery?"

"Oh yes!" Elvina latched onto the subject and prattled on about her experiences around the MacGuffin lands, while Merida attempted to follow the girl's rather erratic train of thought. Her enthusiasm was endearing.

"Well, then," Merida hurriedly interjected when Elvina finally paused for breath, "would you, er, like to have a go?"

The girl's eyes widened almost comically. "_'ere_? With _you_?" Her squeal of delight nearly deafened Merida.

Laughing a bit, and resisting the urge to rub her still-smarting ears, the princess nodded. "There's no one else 'round here, is there? Now come on. Me brothers might say differently, but I really don't bite."

Elvina giggled (again) as she trotted to Merida' side, and together, they turned back to the range.

"Now," Merida said as she unhooked her bow from her arm. "Has your da ever told you the secrets to shooting with a bow 'n arrow?"

Elvina shook her head vigorously.

"All right then," Merida said, holding out her bow. The girl eyed it hesitantly. "Go on, get ready to shoot."

Elvina cautiously took hold of the bow, then the arrow Merida offered, and then stepped back into a proper stance. Merida nodded in approval. The girl had none of that ridiculous posture her brother had used two years before.

"Now," she said, crouching to the girl's level and looking to the target she'd focused on. It was the closest and most obvious, hanging from an unusually long, over-reaching tree limb close to the cliff. It also had a tendency to swing wildly. Merida had chosen its spot for just that reason: there was a funnel effect from the cliffs below and the surrounding rocks, making it difficult to time a shot just right. "You see how that target moves back and forth? On that one, you've got to watch everything 'round it, and listen to the wind on the cliffs, to know when to shoot." She pointed at the feathery tufts of grass below it. "See how the grass moves with the wind? You'll see the wind coming that a-way."

Merida watched as the girl's arrow-point began to move side to side in an attempt to keep up with the target. "Now – slow down, and don't move your aim right now. But keep watching the target, and where it goes." She paused, nodding with satisfaction as the arrowhead stilled and Elvina's focus steadied.

"Alright, then. The first secret to archery is this: always imagine your arrow's flight first, before you release it." Elvina glanced dubiously at Merida, who nodded toward the target. "I'm not fibbing you. Go on, look."

The girl obediently returned her attention to the swaying plank of wood.

"Now, make a picture in your head."

Elvina actually closed her eyes. Merida bit back a laugh.

"Remember how everything was moving? Now, think about how you're to get your arrow where you want it to go, even though it's moving. Think about how it has to fly, and how far it has to go."

Elvina, her eyes still scrunched shut, adjusted her aim slightly.

"And then … when you open your eyes, time it with the wind you see, and … let go."

Elvina's eyes popped back open but held steady on her chosen mark. Merida could see the girl funnel all of her concentration into the arrow poised above her bow hand. And then … released.

And actually hit the mark. Or, at least, the outer white ring.

"I did it!" she shrieked, arms shooting into the air.

Merida quickly ducked out of the way. "You did!" she agreed, laughing.

"Aye," called another voice.

Merida nearly jumped out of her skin in shock, but Elvina simply whirled around and dashed to the new arrival, waving Merida's bow ecstatically over her head. "'Eirin!"

"Aye," her brother said again, catching Elvina as she threw herself into his arms. She squealed in delight as he perched her atop his shoulder. "Iah've been a-lookin' fuhr you, ken? Ma hais been a-worryin' ab'ut you."

Elvina launched into her apparently characteristic chatter, relating her morning's tale up to that point. "—An' I've been practicin' now with the princess! She's been so nice – an' taught me a secret to shootin' arrows!"

"Oh, she did, aye?" Aneirin glanced at Merida, who was hoping her heartbeat would eventually return to normal. For a big guy, he was quiet on his feet – and Merida didn't like to be surprised. "Weill, then," he went on, setting Elvina back on the ground. "Go on an' tell mum you've a-been with tha' princess, an' that'll be that."

"Wait a moment," Merida called, stepping carefully through the rock-strewn weeds to join brother and sister. "Now for the second secret." She pulled an arrow out of her quiver and, crouching to look Elvina in the eye, gravely handed it to her. "Practice. And then practice some more."

The girl nodded earnestly before breaking into giggles. Merida found herself chuckling, too, but stopped after catching sight of the odd expression on Aneirin's face.

He touched Elvina's shoulder. "Wot d'ye say to th' princess, lassie?"

The girl immediately dropped into a practiced curtsy. "Thank you, m'lady!"

Merida gave what she hoped was a graceful half-bow in return. "Of course, and you're always well-come." She grinned at her and added, "It was quite lovely to meet you, Elvina."

With that, the girl blushed, her smile wide and radiant, before dashing off – only to dash back after a moment to return Merida's bow. Aneirin shooed the girl on, but made no move to leave, himself.

Merida smiled briefly at Aneirin, rather satisfied with how that went. If being a princess meant odd little moments like that, she thought she might be able to handle it all quite cheerfully. She swung her bow around her shoulder and made her way back toward her range. If she hurried, she could still get a set of shots in before her mother started searching for her. Besides, she felt no compunction to entertain Aneirin; unlike his sister, he could very obviously look after himself.

But as she drew another arrow and set her aim at one of her furthest targets, she realized she'd never been alone with any of the young men who had once been her suitors – and, according to their fathers, still _were_ her suitors. It was rather unnerving.

"Eihmpressive."

Merida assumed he meant her range and felt a small glow of pride. "Aye," she said, her eye still on the target – and then a release that sent the arrow's metal tip deep into the outer red ring. "I built all this meself."

Aneirin appeared at her side, and she barely stopped herself from flinching in surprise. The man was rather absurdly silent when he moved. "Weill, thaht too," he mused. "But I was talkin' 'bout me sister. She doesnae focus too weill. Wheneve' she takes her arrow'n'bow, we all 'ide behin' thick walls."

Merida huffed for the girl's sake and gestured to Elvina's arrow, now twirling slowly with its mark. "She doesn't seem so bad at it."

Aneirin laughed aloud at that. "Yer her princess. She'd liked as to fly off'n those cliffs fer ye."

Merida rolled her eyes.

"'Tis true, princess," he added softly.

"All right, then." She sent another arrow away, this time into the red eye of Elvina's target. "So. I take it more goes on the dinner table than planned, whenever she goes practicing on the range?"

Aneirin chuckled. "Aye. Ev'n the dogs know tae run from 'er."

They both laughed, and a comfortable silence settled between them as Merida continued to shoot, walking here and there, firing arrows into planks set high between tree limbs, or barely peeking between rocks, or swinging with every breath of air.

"Ye should set some down thehre," he said after a while. Merida glanced up from her current mark – a particularly tiny one set under a heather-crowned hillock. Aneirin had moved to the cliff's edge and was staring down at the sun-touched loch.

"Sorry?"

He nodded toward the water. "Thehre – where'n those stones 're. Whenever th' Vikings come, ye'll need t' 'ave practice shootin' 'em from above."

Merida felt a brief flush of embarrassment for not having considered that herself. She strode to his side and peered down at the stones in question. They thrust out of the loch like fingers, white foam flowing around them as the current swept by. "Aye, that's a good thought." She peeked up at him, only to find him watching her with that same odd expression on his face. She noticed for the first time that he seemed less like a boy now, complete with a beard that was far more than just peach fuzz – although he certainly didn't have the amount of hair his father did. He was as massive as ever, but without that child-like roundness she remembered from years past. "Thank ye. I'll take a boat out tomorrow."

"'Ave you evehr taken a boat out in the loch, 'afore?"

The dubious note in his voice sent her temper flaring immediately. "No – but no matter. I can do it."

Aneirin shook his head. "No man goes al'ne out there – 'tis too much danger." He held up his hand as Merida opened her mouth to argue, hurrying on, "Even th' most experienc'd seamen don' go alone. An' you'd honor me, if ye'd let me help ye, princess."

"Ah—oh." The words that had formed – that he really should mind his own – died on her lips. They sounded churlish even unspoken. "Thank you."

Merida turned away, intent on escaping to her room. The morning really hadn't gone as planned, and she wasn't sure what she thought about that.

"Wait!" he called, and when she looked back, he was digging through the sporran at his belt. And then, with a delicacy that belied his massive hands, he plucked out a bit of silver. "Ye know, ken, all kinds come through'n th' mount'ns. A smithy came t' me with 'is, 'ere. I meant ta' give 'is to ye las' night, but wit' yer brothers an' all..." He trailed off and shrugged his wide shoulders.

In his palm rested the amulet she'd sold to the witch. The metal disk gleamed in the sunlight, and the bears' emerald eyes winked with startling familiarity.

Merida, for the second time in too few hours, was speechless. But unlike the last, this felt like a physical blow. It seemed the sum of all her foolish choices rested on that charm – and the threat she'd brought not just to her father's kingdom, but to the people she loved most. Two years wasn't nearly long enough to dull the excruciating vividness of that incident. It also seemed an odd storm of coincidences was bringing back the worst of those memories.

She really wasn't sure she'd ever wanted to see that charm again.

She then realized he was holding it out to her, obviously expecting her to take it. _As a gift. From a suitor. _A warning flared in her mind. "I, ah—" she stuttered. "I donnae – I mean, a suitor—I'm not rea—" She stumbled into silence, staring at the trine of bears.

She saw something akin to pity flash in his eyes as he reached out and took one of her hands. He tipped the amulet into her palm, where it seemed to burn against her skin. "That's not why I'm givin' 'is to ye," he said, his voice unnervingly gentle. "Yer _my_ princess, too, ye ken?"

With that, and as the far off horns of the games began to blow, he turned and quickly disappeared around the castle's moss-covered walls, leaving Merida to stare after him, feeling more than a little unsettled.


	5. Chapter 4: Fate Betide

**Thank you, reviewers and readers!**

* * *

The Bow and the Stone

Book 1: Dragon Rising

Chapter 4: Fate Betide

* * *

With a bellowing roar, King Fergus lifted his sword and scattered the men before him. It only took another three swipes to throw them to his feet, their weapons useless at their sides. Others, already vanquished, crouched at the edge of the melee, waiting for an opportune moment to rejoin their fallen brethren – a moment Fergus' massive blade never allowed.

"Come on, ye hen-livered laddies!" he growled, and the crowd that had gathered around them cheered. Fergus felt that particular flush of pride that came with being king – something he still, after all these years, wasn't particularly accustomed to – and impulsively went to swing his sword over his head.

—Only to cut the line on a green tent behind him, which fell away to reveal an extremely irate basket-weaver.

"Ah—" There were times when retreat would seem the better option. "Er—Ale for all!" And with due haste, the king and his men withdrew deeper among the brightly colored tents, accompanied by the laughter of the following audience.

Ale on the king's coin was never refused, after all.

The morning had blossomed into a spectacularly bright day in the Highlands. The only evidence of fog had draped itself over the southern mountains, and the air had a crisp clarity that hinted of the autumn to come.

Fergus noticed the castle green was even more crowded this year than the last; traders and craftsmen had flocked to the castle from among the hills, followed closely by countless herders and cottagers who had appeared with their cattle, sheep, and families. Tents crammed next to their neighbors in violent clashes of color, and it seemed there were as many people watching the games as there were perusing the wares of weavers, smiths, ragmen, and woodworkers.

He also made a point of not wandering amongst the livestock pens, which had been situated downwind of everything else. His nose could only take so much.

It was around the noonday hour that he found his daughter at an ironsmith's tent. She was, he gathered, making some sort of wager with the old man, who seemed bemused by the prospect of bartering with DunBroch's princess. Curious, Fergus stayed back far enough to watch and not get involved. A father had to stay advised on his children's pursuits, after all – which Elinor had fiercely reminded him of last night.

"Ye're claimin' ye'll make any shot, aye?" the smith was saying, narrowing an eye at Merida.

"If you'll not take my offers, then – aye, any shot." She paused before adding, "Mind you, I won't be hurting anyone or anything."

The old man chuckled. "A' course not." He then reached over and fingered the elegant mail-shirt draped over a woodblock. "Still, lassie, this 'ere isn't some pretty thing."

Merida crossed her arms and leveled a fierce glare at the smith. Fergus almost laughed. "That's not why I'm interested, good sir," she said. "A mail-shirt certainly isn't worn because it's pretty. Besides, if you're so against my purchase of your workmanship, you need only to choose an impossible shot. There is no risk for you in this venture, is there?"

Fergus did chuckle at that. His daughter was becoming more like her mother, the diplomat, than she would ever admit.

The man climbed to his feet, pausing only to grab a gnarled walking stick. "As you say, m'lady," he said, bowing to Merida. He then strode past her and down the makeshift alley formed between the tent rows, while Merida hurried after him, her bow slung over her shoulder.

He was surprisingly quick for an old guy, Fergus noted.

It only took a moment for the king to catch up with his daughter, who looked up at him in surprise. He winked down at her, leaning toward her ear to murmur, "I think I have a vested interest here, hm?"

Her grin was as bright as her hair and together they followed the grizzled smith out past the tents, away from the green, and to a cluster of stones close to the castle bridge. There the old man stopped, staring past the ravine and up at the walls and towers. "Alright, lassie," he said, turning finally to face Merida. He barely gave Fergus a nod of acknowledgement. "The dovecote atop the keep. Top slot."

It was the highest possible shot, and for an archer on the ground, a distance too far to overcome. Fergus only just stopped himself from gaping openly at him. Granted, Merida had said he could choose an impossible shot, but no man would dare offend royalty in such a way. It would be beyond mere idiocy. Fergus' astonishment gave way to outrage in a matter of seconds. "Ye're truly mad, man! You insult my daughter outright?" Furious, he turned to Merida. "I'll get yer mail, lass, but it won't be from this man!"

But Merida was studying the distance and height with the kind of thoughtfulness Fergus had come to recognize in his daughter. "No, Da," she said, her focus never wavering from the nest-hole in question, empty now that this past spring's fledglings had long flown away. "I think I'll try." She carefully stepped onto the stones and set her position, and then, with a fluid draw, she pulled an arrow from her ever-present quiver and nocked it to her bow.

It was at that point Fergus noted a crowd had formed, young and old, perched on rocks or hanging onto tree trunks or each other, all of them watching the strange trio. The old smith had pulled a pipe out and was chewing thoughtfully on its unlit stem, his pensive gaze never leaving the princess. Fergus had half a mind to flatten the man if Merida couldn't make the shot.

Come to think of it, he'd half a mind to flatten him, regardless.

Merida lifted her aim to square it against the castle keep – then lifted it further – and then tilted it against the wind that brushed through the trees. She hung there for a moment, her shoulders tensed, radiating a calm intensity that reminded Fergus of his men before battle.

And then her arrow flew from her bow, soaring high with only a whisper to give evidence of its pass. The crowd collectively gasped as all eyes followed its flight, as it shot far above the keep's height, across the distance and over the castle walls, then arced down – down, to imbed itself solidly in the wood base of the nest-hole. A cheer erupted behind them – Fergus heard himself shouting along – and Merida spun around to beam at the smith, who nodded gravely to her.

"Yer wager is won, lass," he said, still chewing on his pipe and his eyes now twinkling. "I'll forge yer chain-mail. I'll expect yer measurements in the morn'." With that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the scattering crowd.

"I did it!" Merida squealed, hurling herself now at her father, who gathered her into a bear hug.

"Aye, ye did, lass!" he laughed. "I wouldnae believe it if I hadn't seen it!"

"And if you'd missed?" cut in an irate voice. Fergus turned quickly to see Elinor standing at the bridge, arms crossed and eyes flashing in a warning he knew far too well. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merida instinctively tuck the bow behind her back. Despite the circumstances, Fergus nearly chuckled.

"You could've killed someone in there!" Elinor went on, seething. "How could you be so careless?" She then turned to Fergus, who blanched beneath her gaze. "And you! How could you allow that? What, upon my father's grave, could give reason for such a display?"

"_Mum_." Merida's voice was filled with the exasperation only capable of a girl her age. "I knew I could make it—!" Fergus nudged his daughter none too gently; there'd really be no dealing with her mother at this point. Elinor would only get more and more irritable – a point proven when she seemed to swell in fury. Fergus mentally blamed the triplets. His wife had been beside herself since the night before.

"You would place the responsibility of someone's life on _what you know_—!" Elinor fumed. "When you become queen, you will bear that duty! But heavens help this kingdom if you plan on casting your men to the fate of such trivial matters!" She paused, nostrils flaring, and Fergus thought – for a very brief moment – how adorable she was when riled. He unfortunately also knew how dangerous she could be. "Now, you—" she continued, pointing at Merida, "to the castle. You will prepare for dinner with the help of a maid, and then will retire for the evening in the ladies' chamber." She then jerked her finger toward Fergus. "And you! You're to keep those boys under control. None of last night's ridiculous display, or I'll have _your_ head on the wall!"

Fergus didn't doubt it. "Aye, Elinor. Sorry, love."

Merida didn't answer at all. She marched silently past her mother and across the bridge to the castle arch, her stiffly proper bearing completely at odds with the anger she so obviously radiated. Fergus had noticed his daughter had tempered her outbursts over the years, choosing now to fight in more subversive ways if things weren't in her liking. In her own way, Merida had become just as dangerous as Elinor when thwarted.

Another similarity between mother and daughter that the two didn't see.

Elinor glanced back at Fergus before taking off after Merida, and the king felt a little swell of sympathy for his queen. Her expectations for their kingdom and family always seemed a little too high. Yet, he supposed if he were the head, she surely made up the backbone – and as he rather liked things as they were, someone had to aim high.

But no matter her notions, the queen was going to have a tough night of it. Chuckling, the king turned back to the castle green.

* * *

Merida was quite certain that the most acute form of torture could be found in a ladies' gathering chamber. It also didn't help matters that she was once again trapped in a stifling silk dress unsettlingly similar to the one she'd ruined two years ago.

After dinner the men had tromped out of the hall to join the peasants and craftsmen out on the green, no doubt to celebrate in proper Highland style, while the ladies of clan and castle remained inside. Elinor had led them to a stuffy, tapestry-covered room set into the curve of the keep tower. Elinor had even placed ornately carved chairs in little groups. Whatever her mother was attempting, Merida intensely disliked it.

The whole ordeal was utterly ridiculous, but there would be no swaying _the queen_ tonight. Which gave the never-silent rebel in Merida a perfect excuse to plot an escape.

For the time being, however, it was Merida's extreme misfortune to be seated next to Maira, Lady of Macintosh. And while it should have been lovely that Elvina had perched on Merida's other side, between the girl's adoring chatter and Maira's disapproving sniffs, Merida wondered if she'd survive the night.

Across the chamber, her mother steadfastly ignored her. She was, Merida noted bitterly, comfortably ensconced with Sulwen and Giorsala. Merida rather liked those two ladies.

Adair, the eldest of Maira's daughters and near Merida's own age, settled gracefully into the chair across from Merida, and as Elvina paused to draw more breath, the princess quickly decided to speak up. "What do you think of DunBroch Castle?"

"Too drafty," Maira retorted immediately – which was extremely rich, as all castles were drafty.

Unable to resist, Merida turned to Maira. "Compared to what, might I ask?"

Maira glared down her long nose. Merida was rather amazed at how well matched Lord and Lady Macintosh were.

"Mother has always been diligent in keeping our towers warm," Adair said. "It's been quite an adjustment living with my husband." Merida glanced back at the dark-haired girl. While her parents' and brother's good looks receded behind their not-so-pleasant personalities, Adair and her sister seemed remarkably genteel and likable. "My sister was sickly as a child," Adair went on, nodding to where Lainie stood examining the DunBroch family tapestry.

"Hardships that obviously your family hasn't endured," Maira said, her voice clipped to an almost unintelligible edge. Merida marveled that the lady made such a statement sound like an insult.

And unfair, as she was quite aware of her mother's countless miscarriages and her brothers' miraculous survival. Instead of pointing out such things, Merida simply murmured, "We've been quite blessed."

Maira sniffed again, and Merida turned to Elvina, only to realize the lass had wandered away to her mother's side, where she caught and held Elinor's attention. Merida then realized that Maira and Adair had bent their heads together in deep conversation.

It was an ideal time as any.

Murmuring apologies about the need to retire a moment, Merida slipped from her seat and through the connecting door to the chamber beyond. From there, it was a simple matter of easing through the door to the hall, from the halls to the kitchens (where a cloak left by one of the workers was quickly absconded with), and from the kitchens out into the castle yard. She spied firelight through the castle's arch, and as she tripped cheerfully past several guards and across the bridge, she could almost feel the heat of the fire and the abandonment of the wildly singing clansmen.

This, she thought as she watched cottagers swing their wives in a vigorous reel, was an appropriate end to the games.

But she hadn't snuck out to watch the dancers. Moving quickly between tents and cook fires, she carefully circumvented little groups of chatting men and women, occasionally dodging children as they laughed and scampered away from their aggrieved parents.

Finally, she found the group she sought. Her father, once she spotted him, was impossible to ignore. He was laughing, his head tipped back, a large tankard comfortably in hand as he obviously enjoyed another round of wild tales. The group he sat amongst was easily the largest, and around the fire she saw the high lords, their sons, and others who were obviously their ranking clansmen.

Merida slipped closer, tucking herself between the two twin trucks of a gnarled tree and pulling the cloak and its hood tightly around her, silently cursing the restrictions of her dress. If she waited patiently, she'd hear all kinds of goings on around the kingdom, a topic she'd become far more interested in after Mor'du – and really, as princess, she ought to know these things. Even if those stories would be greatly exaggerated.

And all of which she highly doubted were appropriate for her ears.

Lord Dingwall was posturing wildly, enacting some scene that involved cattle. "—And he's yellin' after us, bowlin' along behind on his little donkey, as we'd taken his horse, too!" The men all roared with laughter.

Merida rolled her eyes. Apparently some lowlanders had been relieved of their livestock.

"Aye, ye lot," called an old man who sat near the king. "Ye watch 'ow riled up ye get those lowland men." As he leaned forward into the firelight, Merida recognized him as the smith she'd found among the tents. She was surprised to see him in that group.

With a small sigh, Merida realized just how easily he'd goaded her into a possibly humiliating wager – a point she had since become a bit sore about, despite it all working in her favor.

Her father shoved one ham of a hand – none too gently – against the old man's shoulder. "Come off it! Those lowlanders daren't touch the mountains—they're afraid to freeze their teensy toes!"

The smith stared beadily back at the king. She noticed his pipe had appeared again, although this time he lit it and sent puffs of smoke drifting away. Her father, however, had gone on to insult the southern-lying peoples in what Merida thought were rather inventive ways, which included chickens, their wives, and the subsequent children.

Merida could just imagine the look on her mother's face after hearing _that_.

"Let me tell ye a story," the old man said, cutting in as the king continued to elaborate. The smith struggled to his feet, his gnarled staff again in hand, and stepped closer to the fire, effectively claiming all the gathered men's attention. "Those of us who remember 'afore the Vikings came, and 'afore the clans united—" he paused momentarily to bow to the king, "—know how we men of the mountains trembled 'afore that horrible wench, Beira, queen of the winter."

Lord Macintosh scoffed. "What is this, some fairy tale before bedtime, eh?"

The smith's eyes twinkled as he tapped the side of his nose. "Aye, ye'd think. But I 'eard somethin' 'bout the comin' winter, somethin' that made me sit up and take notice, soundin' much like a prophecy."

At that, like an enchantment, the clansmen leaned toward the old man. Merida nearly snorted. Her father still tried to deny the existence of magic, but when it came to things of luck and prophecies … well. He'd quite happily spit over his shoulder if the rooster didn't crow.

"An old man – older 'n me," he said with a wink, "talked me ear off one fine day, this summer past. He said that she'd be comin' back to strike at these 'ere mountains, and she'd reign like a goddess with her beast from the south. _The south_." He tipped his chin toward the king and shook a finger at him. "Now, ye'd listen – this man was one and the same that said the clans would come t'gether under one great sword, hm? Long 'afore you ever was born, lad."

Her father stared in obvious befuddlement; she guessed, like herself, he'd never heard _that_ before.

"Aye, my king," the smith went on, "I'd look carefully 'round yer borders, if'n you'd be wise. What beast that'd be…?" He shrugged as his question trailed away.

_A beast_. Worse than Mor'du? Merida doubted it. And everyone knew the story of Queen Baira; it was a simple tale of how the winter always fought the coming of spring and summer, and would always return after the fall. How that could be twisted into a prophecy, she really couldn't imagine.

The men around the fire seemed to think differently, however – although Merida could have attributed that to the amount of whiskey they'd all imbibed by that hour of the night. The silence stretched on as the old smith continued to stand there, and in the stillness, Merida felt a familiar prickle along her neck, and heard the soft whisper of a blade against cloth.

Her heart jumped in warning, but Merida forced herself to turn slowly, keeping her face in the hood's shadow and her body firmly wedged against the tree trunks. The darkness outside of the firelight seemed velvety black, but a glint of steel flickered in the light – beneath a pair of eyes that gleamed with fierce determination.

It only took a breathless moment for Merida to realize she was also seeing a conical helmet emblazoned with an unfamiliar crest – and more than one, dark figures slipping quickly through the deep shadows between tents, all with swords in hand – and she was screaming a warning to her father as chaos erupted around her.


	6. Chapter 5: Lost and Lost Again

**Thank you to all the readers, and thank you reviewers, especially! I wanted to shout out to those who've reviewed: Avatarcatz, lallyzippo, IneedaCaskett, gabthebomb, The Girl Who…, Awena-Sachi, and Concetta, I so appreciate the time y'all took to post a note!**

* * *

The Bow and the Stone

Book 1: Dragon Rising

Chapter 5: Lost and Lost Again

* * *

"What beast that'd be…?"

King Fergus found himself oddly disturbed by the old smith's strange tale. Deep among the mountains and surrounded by so many unknowns, prophecy was something he and his men took seriously. Magic touched places utterly unholy (one need only look at Mor'du), places Fergus would rather never acknowledge even in his own thoughts. But the human mind – now that was a source of wonder he could gladly put his faith in. And if mysteries revealed by some old man's ramblings kept his kingdom safe from even the mundane, like a snow storm, he would take notice.

No, prophecy was not something freely bantered about, and the smith's casual warning left a worm of unease in his gut.

It was as he stared into the fire, brooding, that he first heard something out of place around him. It was as simple as a footfall against the grass – in a boot too solid to be leather.

Fergus casually gripped the hilt of his sword as he glanced out into the night, not particularly wanting to rile up his men over nothing. There were countless shadows and shapes, and bright spots of fire where others gathered, but nothing that seemed out of place.

Of course, it didn't help matters that he'd once again emptied his tankard a few too many times.

He half-rose, deciding a good walk would at least clear his mind of drink and prophecies - and in that moment, he heard his daughter scream.

"Merida!" Fergus bellowed. His tankard hadn't even hit the ground before his sword was flashing in the firelight. There was no mistaking that voice … but Merida never screamed. She wasn't that kind of lass.

She shrieked again, setting his hair on end, and he realized she was yelling something to him – what, he hadn't the foggiest – before the night seemed to explode with the thunder of a hundred armored soldiers, swords raised and helmets gleaming as they poured into the light.

"To battle!" Fergus roared. He hardly realized he was running, desperately searching for a sign of his daughter, as his clansmen shouted in alarm around him and drew what weapons they had.

A battle-axe appeared in front of him, wielded by a man as large as he and coated head to toe in chain-mail. With a furious roar, Fergus lifted his sword and sparks flew as he met the axe's jagged edge. The king quickly sidestepped and slashed at the man's side, forcing him to re-angle the sweep of his axe. It was the momentary distraction Fergus needed to punch the soldier squarely in the face. The man went down like a rock.

Three more soldiers closed in on him, only to fall together as his sword cleaved their weapons from their hands and swatted them away. But they kept coming. Again and again, he jabbed and heaved at men who seemed to throw themselves at him. Fergus dimly registered that the night was growing brighter around him, and with a snarl of fury, he realized the acrid smell of smoke and blood and things that shouldn't be burning came from the whole of the green put to flame. _Devil take it, where were his guards?_

But finally, he could see Merida fighting ahead of him, her hair glowing like the fire that lit the darkness, and felt his gut freeze in terror as her cloak was torn from her, saw her take down two men with their own pikes—

—And a blaze of pain shot white-hot through his only leg. The leg buckled and Fergus hit the ground hard, wheezing in shock. He twisted around and raised his sword to meet whoever was behind him, but the pain dug even deeper, nearly blinding him in its intensity before he realized there was a thick arrow shaft lodged deep in his calf.

In that instant on the ground, he took in the crumpled figures around him, the maze of legs and shadows as countless others fought on, the thick haze of smoke that cast a nightmarish pall on everything. Yet above all, he heard his daughter fighting on.

Blind fury forced him up, leaning heavily on his peg. Merida struggled now against four men just yards away. He lunged forward, watching her tear at them with her bare hands, yanking a sword out of one man's hand only to be wrapped in a blinding hold by another from behind her, the hilt forced from her fingers by a third. The soldiers seemed grimly intent on restraining her, and one lifted the pommel to deftly crack it against her head. Like a rag doll, she went limp.

With dawning horror, Fergus realized what they intended. "YOU WILL NOT TAKE MY DAUGHTER!" he roared, lifting his sword high and half-running to within mere feet of her, only to be stopped as a blade cut his peg out from beneath him. He rolled back up to find a sword-point gleaming at the end of his nose. He lurched backwards, letting instinct guide his parry as the other attacked with blinding speed, tearing easily through Fergus' bearskin cloak as he dodged away.

It was only then that Fergus looked fully at his opponent, standing calmly before him, a wickedly curved blade held at the ready. The soldier was slightly built, darker than any man Fergus had ever seen, and dressed just as oddly. A bow and quiver was slung across his back, but it was the easy grace he held himself with his sword that Fergus took the most notice of.

The man was an able fighter.

"Take her," the dark soldier called over his shoulder in an oddly accented voice, his eyes never leaving Fergus'.

"Ye'll never!" Fergus lunged toward the man, meeting his raised sword in a brutal clash of metal. They locked for an instant before the man whirled around him, raking the tip of his blade deeply into Fergus' leather jerkin to the mail beneath. But what the man had in speed, Fergus made up for in reach and brute strength – even while injured. He knocked the broad blade of his sword against the man's own, forcing it down as Fergus pivoted, intent on grabbing the man and tearing into him with his bare hands.

But his leg couldn't hold him.

Fergus went down again, the blood pounding in his ears, and saw his opponent's sword flash – but the blade never touched him.

"Stay down, good king," the dark soldier said in his thick accent, backing away. "I am not to damage you … much."

"I'll not let you harm my daughter!" Fergus snarled at him, his fingers raking the deep loam as he struggled forward again, ignoring the agony in his leg.

"Ahh," the man said, his lips quirking in an unpleasant smile. He lifted his sword in a mock salute. "But she isn't to be harmed, either." And with a speed that left Fergus howling in fury after him, he disappeared into the smoke and flame that wreathed the castle green.

Only then did Fergus realize Merida was gone, too.

Clawing at the damp grass, he dragged himself up and headlong into the fiery depths of what had been row upon row of tents. The roar of the flames deafened him, and the heat and smoke burned his lungs, and the pain in his leg seared even deeper – yet as he limped on, there was no sign of anyone. Not even of the enemy.

It was Lord MacGuffin who found him and forcibly pulled him back.

"No— Merida is out there," Fergus yelled at him over the roar of the fire. "We have to hunt them down. Now!"

"We'll find her, man," MacGuffin yelled back, his face grim and streaked with dirt. "But we'll do it with dogs and horses. Come, man!"

The sense of such an action finally clicked into place in Fergus' mind, and he whirled around – only to be stopped again by MacGuffin. The clan lord was staring down at Fergus' bloody leg in astonishment. "Ye'll kill yourself like that!"

Fergus ignored him and limped hastily back into the center of the green, where the fire wouldn't touch. The ever-present damp at least had some redeeming qualities.

But it seemed the castle green had instead become a sea of carnage. In the light of the fire, he could see soot-covered children clinging to their sobbing mothers, while ragged groups huddled around others laid out on the ground. Of the strange soldiers, not even a fallen helment remained. Fergus briefly closed his eyes.

"Not as bad as it looks," MacGuffin said, clapping a hand on the king's shoulder. "Some nasty cuts. Lots of 'em banged around. Burns. But not one dead." At Fergus' glance of disbelief, MacGuffin nodded. "Aye, King. They weren't fightin' to kill."

Fergus thought of the axe that had flashed in front of him – and of his daughter, limp in the arms of armored soldiers – and felt the slow boil of his blood burn white-hot again.

The big lord beside him shook his head, ignorant of his king's rising temper. "Could've been a massacre," he said.

Fergus took a steadying breath. "Find me that old smith. He knows somethin'." _Or I'll give up my crown to Wee Dingwall_, he added silently. "They may not've been fightin' to kill, but _I'll_ be when I find 'em." He turned away, intent on finding his horse, his dogs – and maybe a piece of leather to bite on as he yanked the arrow out of his leg.

It was young Gavan of Macintosh who let out a shout from the edge of the green, staring in horror over the still-burning tents. "The castle!"

_Of course_. Fergus cursed his own stupidity as he began to run, ignoring the searing pain in his calf, toward his castle that glowed like a beacon in the night.

They hadn't fought to kill. They'd fought to distract.

* * *

Harris, Hamish, and Hubert had a standing rule between them that nothing would get in the way of their search for progress, although they agreed that their definition of progress was quite … progressive, itself.

Generally, their inventiveness had led to a fair amount of parental rage – which, of course, only fueled their aspirations. It really just made finding a new challenge all the more fun.

It had been Harris, as usual, who'd made their current decision. And while they wouldn't describe their current spot atop the barracks as a hidey-hole from their mother, they all agreed staying out of her way would be a good idea. At least for the time being.

So, after sitting through a dinner – haggis, _again_ – that had been about as much fun as their mother's history lessons, and then watching their sister's dejected exit as she was swept off with the other ladies, the triplets had made their escape.

One never knew when Mum would decide she'd like them in sight, after all.

Hamish had stolen the prized bits of meat from the kitchens, while Harris had made off with a platter of tarts. Hubert had somehow leveraged a barrel of mead onto the wooden rooftop – which they didn't particularly like the taste of, but the adults drank it, and that was reason enough.

They settled happily in their little refuge as the last traces of the day were crowning the western mountains. The brothers then focused their considerable attention to demolishing the heap of chicken, pork, and venison, and by the time looked up from their platter, night had fully settled.

"You'd think we'd burned down the castle or somethin'," Harris said as he dropped a chicken bone back onto the platter. He stretched comfortably before grabbing a tart.

"Aye," said Hamish, grinning. "But the look on Mum's face was worth it."

Hubert, however, was again deep in thought as he nibbled on a pastry. Of the three, he was typically the decision-maker, especially when it came to implementing an idea of some sort. Harris usually added a bit of cautionary logic to the table, while Hamish rushed headlong into whatever Hubert came up with, sometimes before his brother had actually finished formulating his wild notions.

"Y'know," Hubert mused, "that woodsmith really isn't all that Da' thinks of 'im."

Harris glanced aside at his brother. "What makes ye say that?"

Hubert gave his brother a withering look. "Ye don't see? How we made our trebuchet – and how the stuff we learned from 'im just didn't work right?" Hubert shook his head as he turned to gaze out over the trees to the green. "We didn't get it wrong – and we got it right, after all. _He _was the one wrong from the first."

Harris laughed. "Yer just mad 'cause ye couldn't get the ramming tree right."

"What's ol' Gohba doin' now, anyway?" piped up Hamish, who, unlike his brothers, was looking to the interior of the castle walls. The other two quickly peered over Hamish's shoulder.

Harris brushed it off. "He's just getting' somethin' for the guards."

Hubert, however, wasn't convinced. Something seemed to be flashing in his mind – like a puzzle he needed to finish. He and Hamish continued to watch the burly man as he carried mugs of ale to the various guard details, which were accepted with a good deal of cheer. It'd been the luck of the draw that had decided who'd taken first watch while the revelers went at it on the green, and the losers hadn't been pleased at their lots. The boys had heard the guards grumbling as they'd snuck past – something they'd enjoyed a good laugh about.

Hamish lost interest soon enough, but Hubert kept watching. It was Harris who scooted close when the first man leaned drunkenly against the castle doors. "…Ale or—?"

"Not ale," Hubert finished as they watched the guard drop, following by another that propped himself up against a parapet – and then others that slowly slid down to the ground, their hands still gripping their pikes until those, too, clattered to the stones.

The puzzle began to click into place. Hubert's gaze fell to the massive castle gates. "We need ta' close those gates. Now!"

Hamish practically flew off the roof to the heap of straw beneath and was off and running as Harris grabbed his brother. "Da is out there. And all those people!"

But the soldiers suddenly filling the yard and lining the top walls, their armor gleaming in the light of their torches, hadn't come from beyond the castle gates. From the rooftop, Hubert could see more pouring in through the small gate beside the kitchens. The soldiers quickly surrounded the keep and silently entered the castle through the kitchens – which he knew would be deserted at this point. Even the cooks had gone out to the green.

There was a sudden shout, and Harris gasped. Hubert whirled to see Hamish right at the castle gates and framed in the light of a torch, his eyes wide and – likely for the first time – obviously terrified.

"Run, Hamish!" Harris yelled. Hubert could see a dozen helmeted heads turn towards them, and grabbing his brother, he threw them both over the other side of the rooftop – which, unfortunately, was a significant drop to the outside of the castle walls. Both boys landed with a pained "oof!" into the scrubby bushes below.

Only to have Hamish jerk them out by their hair as he ran by. "C'mon!" he yelled, tugging hard as leaves scattered around them.

"Oy, then! Let go!" Hubert snapped, hauling himself and Harris up. All three boys ran hard along the castle's walls as several torch-bearing soldiers appeared around the castle's corner. Another shout from behind them urged them on, and they suddenly heard screams from high up in the keep. Harris had to push Hamish on as the boy slowed to glance up at the parapets overhead.

Hubert skidded to a halt as he realized they were running in the direction the soldiers had originally come from, toward the side of the wall where the kitchens were, and desperately tugged his at brothers. "This way!"

They followed Hubert without hesitation down the steep, grassy banks to the cliff walls. The benefit of being princes meant they each knew every tiny detail of the surrounding landscape, and barely slowing their pace, they hurtled down the smooth stone face – only to slide beneath an overhang that hid a shallow rock shelf barely large enough to fit all three of them.

"Where'd they go?" called a voice from overhead.

"They'd never have jumped!" said another.

"They're crazy up here, they say. Even the little ones."

A horn blew from somewhere inside the castle yard, sounding out over the screams the boys could still hear – and a peculiar rumble that seemed to fill the air.

"Let's go on, then. It's almost all done." And the voices left.

Hubert glanced at the pale shadow that was Harris, who was staring thin-lipped out over the black sea. Hamish was trying to peer up past the overhanging rock. "We should've stayed to help," he said plaintively.

"_How_?" Harris said, his voice shaking. "Those're real swords, y'know! We play around, an' we have fun … but we're never goin' to stop an army ourselves." He caught the all-too familiar look on Hubert's face. "Oh, no. We're not!"

Hubert grinned. "Aye, we are. C'mon!"

But as they clambered up over the edge of the cliff, it was to see flames swirling through the windows of the keep and showers of embers fluttering to the yard below. Hubert felt a sickening swoop in his stomach. The level that burned the brightest housed the family chambers – and he knew the ladies had all gone up to one of those rooms after dinner.

"There!" shouted Harris, pointing into the forest. As the keep glowed like a giant torch, Hubert could see saddled horses snorting and dancing nervously between the trees, and armored men swarming back out from the castle walls to mount and ride away into the darkness, the heavy pounding of hooves drowning out even the roar of the growing blaze.

And then it was Hamish dragging the other two brothers back around the castle walls to the gates, shouting that they had to _do_ something. Through the castle gates, they caught a glimpse of the clan ladies stumbling out of the lower servants' entrance, coughing and clinging to each other, before men wearing the familiar tartan swarmed right over the top of the boys – and their father limped by, his only leg drenched in blood and an arrow sticking out of it, his face and beard etched dreadfully with soot.

Harris made a sound similar to a sob, and Hubert looked at him in alarm. The triplets didn't care much for crying – and certainly not for anything resembling weeping.

"Boys," called their father, and Hubert's concern for the world's equilibrium became more pronounced – as if it weren't already off kilter with their home ablaze in front of him. Their father's voice had deepened to something rough and desperate, like a wounded animal. No simple fire could frighten Hubert, but something as unchangeable and steady as their father …

"Stay close to me," the king said, gripping their shoulders for a moment, one by one, with his massive hands. He then limped on toward the small crowd that was growing around the ladies, who had retreated to the far side of the inner yard. Hubert could hear men shouting for water, and see others pulling unconscious guards away from the flames that now licked at the lowest doors. Overhead, he heard the groan and snap of weakened timbers, and flashing shadows as the inner walls of the keep began to collapse.

"Theiy'n took 'er," Lady Giorsala was saying, tears running freely down her face. She gripped her daughter tightly, another hand resting protectively on her gravid belly. "Theiy'n jus' came ien, an' grabbed 'er, an'—" She went silent, tightening her hold on Elvina until the lass winced in pain. Lord MacGuffin gathered them both in his arms. Aneirin stood grimly next to his family, his gaze fixed in the direction of the castle green, a battle-axe clenched at his side.

Lady Maira spoke up when it seemed Giorsala couldn't go on. "They knocked her on the head and she went down." The lady's eyes fluttered shut, and her daughters caught both her hands in theirs. "They threw torches on the tapestries and the furniture and took her – and they pointed their swords at us and told us to run— and we— we ran."

Thunder rumbled suddenly overhead, and without any other warning, the sky opened onto the charred stones of Castle DunBroch. And like the hiss of the downpour on the fire, shocked voices whispered to others around them, over and over. "_They took the queen!"_

The boys huddled silently together against the storm, watching as their father fell to his knees, his massive shoulders shaking, his head bowed as he wept with the rain.


	7. Chapter 6: Low Men and Desert Men

**Thank you so much, readers and reviewers! I love that you're enjoying this, and thank you so, so much, those of you who left a note. Gabthebomb, IneedaCaskett, Avatarcatz2323, Awena-Sachi, Andyouthought…, Fate, and Graystripe64, it's wonderful to hear from you all!**

* * *

The Bow and the Stone

Book 1: Dragon Rising

Chapter 6: Low Men and Desert Men

* * *

The wide stone slabs of DunBroch's inner yard were an achingly cold bed; King Fergus would know, as he'd spent most of the night on them. Sleep, of course, had been the last thing on his mind.

The barber-surgeon had seen to his leg at last (although he'd emphatically reminded the man to steer clear of his whiskers), and by the light of too many torches, the arrow-shaft had been cut away from his leg. Countless hours and drams of whiskey later (on the wound and in his belly), Fergus had balefully examined the heavy arrowhead and wondered how best to return its former owner's favor.

Perhaps he was getting slow. Complacent. Weak. "'s my fault," he slurred as his gaze slipped to the bandage now tightly wrapped around his leg.

"Eh?" said a voice close by, and Fergus cursed his luck. Of all people, Dingwall had been that shadow hovering over him.

"I heard that," the shadow said crossly before stomping away.

The downpour had quickly sputtered to an end, and a flurry of activity had sprung up around him since. Now, despite the hour – although Fergus hadn't the foggiest idea when the dawn would come – men and women continued to move about, blurry forms flickering between the night and torch-light. Part of his mind knew they were rigging shelters out of whatever they could find and digging out supplies from the ruins of his castle, because life had to go on, and necessary things had to be taken care of, although what those things were, Fergus couldn't really remember.

The other part of his mind seemed determined to stay blissfully blank, as if it were attempting to forget something.

_Oh, Elinor... I failed you._

With a groan, he instinctively reached out to feel where his dozing boys had wrapped themselves in his discarded and tattered bear-skin cloak. They were all he had left.

That one part of his brain determined to be productive urged him up to decide how best to go forward – because he had to find his wife and daughter, and he had to lead the clans, and he had to find out who'd dared incite his wrath – but the other part still drenched in whiskey wanted to sink back into that void of nothing because, really, both legs (or leg and a half, if one worried about semantics) were wonderfully numb right now, as was his head, too – and he was almost certain that to have this many flasks laying deflated around him – and another still gripped firmly in his hand – someone had broken into his best casks down in the cellars. Which he should've been upset about.

But he wasn't.

Until a rush of icy-cold water hit his head.

"EAAHG!" The shock wrenched Fergus upright, coughing and spluttering and furious. "What do ye think you're doing?"

Macintosh, MacGuffin, and Dingwall stood in front of him, each looking rather smug and holding wooden buckets. Empty wooden buckets.

"Just a wee soberin' up, laddie," Dingwall said. "You were gettin' a bit too maudlin."

Macintosh pried the flask out of the king's stiff fingers. "Aye. While it's nice to be sittin' around a burned out castle all night, we thought it might be time to be getting' along."

Fergus stared blankly up at them. "You're leaving?" He knew full well that Elinor was the true force behind their alliance's survival; he and the lords were at each others' throats more often than they should to resemble a "proper" kingdom, as Elinor would put it – but really, he'd thought they'd stay more than a night.

"Ha! You're even more daft than I realized!" Dingwall huffed, shaking a finger at Fergus. "I know what you're thinkin', laddie – and I'm thinkin' you put a few too many tankards down your gullet!" He leaned toward the king and spoke slowly, as if to a child. "You've still got one leg, aye?"

Fergus glared.

MacGuffin chuckled and held out a hand to haul a grumbling Fergus to his feet – only to steady him as the king swayed alarmingly. "Much has been discussed during the night," MacGuffin boomed (Fergus winced), "and now we need your guidance."

Fergus wasn't sure how much guidance he could possibly be at that moment, considering how wildly the yard was tilting again – and then another bucket of water was emptied over his head.

"ERRAUGH! Would you stop that?!"

After a thick cloak had been thrown over his shoulders, and after he'd kissed the fuzzy tops of his sons' sleeping heads (they were miraculously dry, considering the amount of water puddled on the stones around them), King Fergus joined the lords inside the barracks. The long stone-and-mortar room housed scores of weapons, all in various states of repair (or disrepair). It also held Fergus' only surviving maps in its half-cellar. He'd been rather proud of the archives in his keep, but knew they'd likely been fodder for that blasted fire or just buried beneath the rubble.

As the king ducked through the low doorway, the lords were arguing over the current claims of the lowland clans and castles. The big, rough-hewn table they stood around was strewn with candles, rolls of maps, a couple of tattered books, and several flagons that steamed and smelled headily of sweet mead.

"And I say Anheern was taken by that man Calhoun!" Dingwall growled.

"Except for the teensy detail that his own cousin came runnin' through me lands, claimin' he'd been sent packing by Lord Feylain!" Macintosh shot back.

"I'd heard all them lowland clans got run over by the English," said MacGuffin.

"We know absolutely this was done by lowlanders?" Fergus asked as he limped to table, and the three lords turned to him. All three of them were still covered in soot and dirt, and in MacGuffin's case, blood. In the candlelight, they looked barbaric. Fergus knew he couldn't look much better – and he likely looked far worse.

"Aye," said Dingwall. "Or well enough that they did."

"There were no Vikings I saw among them," MacGuffin rumbled.

Dingwall tapped at one of the maps. "That leaves all these." Which, unfortunately, left a broad range of candidates – everyone from the Britons to the Northumbrians claimed the rolling, southern-lying hills and forests.

Fergus eased himself into a chair. "My boys said somethin' about the woodsmith and the guards, that he'd handed out drinks all around 'afore the whole lot of 'em keeled over, dead asleep."

Macintosh stared at Fergus. "A mug of ale took out your entire guard?"

Fergus ran a hand through his still-wet hair. "Aye. And me dogs, too."

Dingwall snorted.

"He's gone?" asked MacGuffin, and Fergus nodded.

Macintosh eyed the steaming mead. "What sort of drink could do that?"

"Nothin' from these parts," MacGuffin said. "Anything strong enough to put ye down like that would kill ye, alas."

"What of that prophecy, eh?" Macintosh asked, glancing around as if to gauge the others' reaction.

The king flicked a finger dismissively, more for Macintosh's sake than his own. While Fergus considered himself superstitious, Macintosh was easily a fanatic. There was something off about the prophecy, but he couldn't get the thoughts in his head into any sort of order. "Until I see some great beast and a snowstorm breathin' down my neck, I won't be givin' that smith much credit." He also felt a bit like a sore loser; if the smith really had known something, the weedy old man deserved a thrashing. "Was he ever found?"

All three lords ruefully shook their heads, and Fergus growled in frustration. "Wouldn't be surprised if he'd been a lowlander, too."

"Aye," said MacGuffin. "But even if he weren't, there were many from the hills who'd come for the games and've already gone back whence."

"In the _night_? They'd like to fall into the loch, bloody fools."

MacGuffin shrugged. "Bad luck of the affair, and all. Ye never know."

Fergus sighed and turned to Dingwall. "You know more about them lowlanders than any of us here. Are you certain it was them?"

The others were silent as the old lord stared at the maps, his face grim. Dingwall's lands lay the furthest south, and his clan had the most contact with outlying kingdoms (mostly to relinquish them of their cattle) – but perhaps of most importance, his wife had been a lady of noble birth from one of the lowland tribes. Dingwall had rarely discussed her since her death, but the king desperately needed information. All signs pointed away from the Vikings (they weren't known for simply crashing a party and leaving without total destruction in their wake), and if the lowland clans or kingdoms had gone through that much trouble to take Elinor and Merida, they would at least be treated with some due courtesy.

Just how _much_ courtesy was a thought that unsettled Fergus.

"My Rossalyn, God rest her soul," Dingwall said finally, "brought all her books and such with her when she married me – and there were some with good maps in 'em. And lists of all those clans." He shrugged. "Maybe out o' date, but can't've be by much."

Fergus stared, too, at the only maps he now had, following the faded lines as they traced rivers and shorelines, forests and mountains. It was a huge expanse to search for two women in.

Macintosh eventually spoke up. "Are we assuming…?"

"Ransom?" Fergus answered, glancing at the wiry man. "Aye. I've heard of such things among the Angles an' Britons. That and it would be ridiculous to fight, and take a queen and a princess, without expectin' us to follow."

"A trap of some kind?" Macintosh sounded bewildered.

Fergus spread his hands. "Bonnie well if I know."

"There is more, King Fergus," MacGuffin said. "They did have a ship, but not a Viking's longboat." At Fergus' furrowed brow, he added, "One o' your men from the outer brochs ran into the yard 'round mid 'o the night."

"He said a ship passed off the shoreline, all lit up with torches and makin' a racket as to raise the dead," said Macintosh. "Bloody stupid, sailin' these lochs in the night."

"What's worse," Dingwall cut in, "is your man said your whole detail'd been put to sleep."

"Them, too?" asked Fergus in disbelief, a prickle of alarm skittering up his arms.

Dingwall shrugged. "Aye, or whatever was done to yer men an' dogs here."

"Call it what it is," said Fergus flatly. "Poison." He spat in disgust on the floor. Fergus didn't want to consider it – Highlanders stuck together – but to organize such an effort would have taken a detailed amount of knowledge and timing, much more than one woodworker or ironsmith would be capable of. He knew the best defense their kingdom had was its remoteness, as it wasn't easy to move a sizable force around these mountains and seas. To be so bold...

It all pointed at only one thing.

"Who was that guard? How did he see the ship?" Fergus barely registered how hard his voice had suddenly become, but he did notice the other lords exchange glances. "Well?"

"He's gone back, now – but he said they'd all celebrated a bit," said Macintosh. "He said he hadn't drunk as much as the others, and woke up to realize what was goin' on."

Fergus clenched his fists as he attempted to keep his voice calm. "And no one thought I'd like to ask the man myself?"

Dingwall swelled indignantly. "Don't start havin' a go at us—"

"I'll be havin' a go – my wife and daughter gone, my castle burned, and treason at my threshold! And all us sittin' here like barnacles!" Fergus roared back.

"Not all us, King," MacGuffin said over Dingwall, as the old lord snarled back about whose barnacles were bigger. "And you oughtn't to question our allegiance. We're fightin' at your side to get them back _and_ to keep this kingdom."

Macintosh lifted a flagon to that, while Dingwall subsided, muttering in a disgruntled way.

"My lords," said a new voice from the doorway. Dorrell had ducked in, still grimy and covered in soot – and of all things, tear-streaked. He bowed to them all and spoke to the floor; it registered dimly in Fergus' mind that his herald seemed to be taking the castle's destruction harder than he. "Th' young lords be off, my lords!"

"What?" asked Fergus sharply, as the others nodded to the man before he disappeared beyond the doorway.

"Our sons have been waitin' for a bit of dawn to follow on horseback," Macintosh said. "There seems to be only one true trail, so far as can be seen after the rain and by torchlight. And it leads straight south, so another arrow to the lowlanders."

"And we've been standin' here?" Fergus asked incredulously. He turned to limp back outside, gritting his teeth against his throbbing leg. The whiskey's effects had worn off, but he needed to be away from this castle – away and doing something.

MacGuffin's hand stopped him. "Nay, Fergus. Not with that leg o' yours."

"I will not be stopped from goin' after me girls!"

"Should've thought of that 'afore you got shot," huffed Dingwall.

"That's enough, then," MacGuffin said as he deftly removed Fergus' sword when it suddenly appeared in the king's hand. "Our boys will move fast." He chuckled, although Fergus couldn't find anything particularly amusing about the situation. "They're quite motivated about it all. Three young men will move faster than a large force – and faster than any of us."

Fergus couldn't keep himself from staring in disbelief at the big man. The lords' sons hadn't exactly inspired confidence in him at any point.

"Aye," said Macintosh, glancing between Fergus and Dingwall as if disappointed that a fight wasn't going to break out. "So. To review. Princess Merida and Queen Elinor may or may not have been taken by horseback or boat to some unknown place somewhere south of our dear mountains, by some other tribe or clan or whatnot."

"Or they're still in the mountains," added MacGuffin.

Macintosh nodded. "... or on a boat in a loch, or a river, or ... somewhere. And no matter the bit of treason, or which of the lowerlanders did it, we've got to look south, aye? I believe our way is clear, then?"

Although Dingwall scowled, and Fergus felt rather nonplussed, MacGuffin nodded in agreement. "Aye. We need maps. We need to move south. And we need a castle."

Macintosh then smirked at the crotchety old lord whose eyes had narrowed dangerously. "Dingwall, you'll enjoy house-guests. Men the likes of us only eat a wee bit – and 'tis only while we examine those maps of yours. And perhaps wait on a ransom note."

And while MacGuffin slapped Macintosh's shoulder hard enough to send him flying into the mead, and Fergus bristled at them all for the delay, Dingwall stomped out (cursing all the while) into the graying dawn, supposedly to ready the ships.

* * *

"Princess."

The sun was warm on her head, and the rhythmic swing of the horse's pace lulled her into a comfortable drowse.

"You need to drink."

Some of Merida's earliest and most favorite memories had been from the back of a horse. Countless times, her father had swung her up in front of him and she had galloped over the mountains within the safety of his arms, squealing with glee and hands out-stretched as if she truly were flying.

On her mother's mare, she'd always drifted off to sleep, comforted by her mother's steady hands, the rock and sway of the horse, and the dappled sunlight on her face, and the damp, earthy smell of the forest.

A persistent ache slowly cut through her memory, until she blinked … only to realize her face was buried against a horse's wiry mane, her wrists and shoulders ached dreadfully, and her head throbbed even worse.

She sat up with a start, only to cry out as a spike of pain shot through her eyes.

"One can only assume your head is hurting, now," a wry voice said from close by. "Which is why you should drink."

The horse beneath her came to a halt, and the rim of a leather flask touched her dry lips. It was only as the water splashed into her mouth that she realized just how desperately thirsty she'd become. But then the flask was taken away, and she attempted to reach for it – only to squint down at ropes that bound her hands to the horse's saddle.

She immediately panicked.

"Woah, mare," said the voice again, as her horse began to fidget, and she saw a swarthy hand reach for the reins. She knew she couldn't let that happen.

Merida kicked as hard as she could, and the mare shot forward. Startled yells rose around her, and she had the quick impression of many horses and armored men before the trees enveloped her and scrubby, whip-thin branches began to strike her face, stinging and lashing. Merida belatedly realized she had no control whatsoever of her horse's head.

Or any idea where she was.

But that wasn't going to stop her.

Kicking her horse even harder, she flattened herself against its neck and tried to peer through the wildly streaming mane to see something – anything – that resembled a path. If she could catch a glimpse of moss, she'd at least know which way was north, but the trees were flying past her, blurring into streaks of brown and green. It all looked like the forests surrounding her home – and, really, she could've been anywhere west, south, or north.

She desperately hoped she hadn't been asleep so long that she'd left her homeland entirely.

A bright flash of honey-brown shot past the corner of her eye, and her horse squealed shrilly as it stumbled, throwing itself out of the way of another horse and a rider who reached for both of them. Merida shrieked as the forest whirled around her, and she dug her fingernails into the saddle as it rocked and strained with the horse's muscles, and finally the mare slid to an abrupt stop. Merida's chest slammed painfully into its neck, and for a moment, she simply laid there, wheezing in shock.

But not for long.

A hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her upright, and that same voice growled furiously in her ear. "A foolish attempt, Princess."

Never one to not have the last word, Merida turned quickly to snap her teeth at the man's wrist. Might as well fight like Wee Dingwall, once and a while.

The man released her hair, but not her mare's reins, and as she turned to face him, Merida found him staring at her with an oddly disgusted expression on his face. Good. Let him be repulsed and send her on her way.

He was dark and wiry, with finely-lined skin that brought to mind the redstone spires at the fire-falls. His eyes were equally dark, with an alert intensity to them that set Merida's nerves on edge.

She also noticed the odd sword at his belt and the finely carved bow resting at his back. Perhaps not the easiest of wardens to escape from.

"Let me go," she said, forcing as much authority into her cracked voice as she could.

The man snorted. "Unlikely." He tied the reins to his own horse's saddle and turned them both, letting his blood-bay step out into an easy trot that jostled Merida's bruised ribs. The horses they rode were tiny compared to her Angus, but certainly didn't have the chunky girth of the ponies she'd once seen trotting over the moors. Her mare was gray and angular, and the man's bay seemed just as narrow and delicate, but with an unusually high crest to its neck. They seemed as foreign as the man.

"You have no reason to take me," she said, trying again.

"My reasons are quite adequate."

"Do you have any idea what you've started? My father is King Fergus, and he will not stop—"

"I am aware of your lineage, Princess."

"Then you are willing to bring war upon your head!"

At that, the man slowed both horses to a walk. He took the leather water flask and put it to her lips, but Merida jerked her head away.

"Drink," he snapped.

Merida narrowed her eyes at him. "Make me."

A challenge she quickly regretted, as he grabbed her hair again, hauled her head back, and dumped water over her mouth and nose. Spluttering and coughing, she tried to shake him off, but he pinched her nose shut and forced her to swallow.

"Do not believe that you will find pity here, Princess," he said finally, releasing her.

"Antar," a new voice called. Another soldier, as pale as the man next to her was dark, had appeared from among the trees, clad head to toe in elaborate armor. As much as the foreign man unnerved her, this other soldier sent a shiver of alarm down her spine. He radiated a cold apathy that clashed harshly with the fiery chestnut mount that jigged beneath him.

"She did not get far, m'lord," the man called Antar said with a quick bow of his head.

The other soldier barely acknowledged him, his gaze instead fixed on Merida. "You will _keep_ her tied to your mount, now."

Without waiting for Antar's response, the soldier roughly turned his horse and rode away. Silently, the dark man followed after, and Merida watched the forest floor pass under her without seeing it.

After several minutes of silence, her captor sighed and reached into a pouch at his belt. "Open your mouth," he ordered. When Merida stared in disbelief at him, he quirked a brow. "Refusing me did not help you before."

"You're daft if you think that means I'll start obeying you—"

And once again, he grabbed her head, this time to force a finger into her mouth – which she promptly bit. To his credit, the man didn't even wince as he quickly jerked away. She coughed as she tasted something bitter and dry on her tongue, but when she tried to spit it out, he gripped her chin painfully.

"No, you'll have to swallow that," he said as she tried to wrench herself away from him.

But the effects of whatever he'd forced in her mouth were immediate, and as she tugged helplessly at the ropes on her arms, the forest began to blur around her.

"I hate you," she slurred as she felt herself fall forward over her mare's neck.

"Yes," he said, as the light faded first to a muddy yellow, then to gray. "All of this is necessary, but much to your misfortune."

She had to find some way to escape.

Surely they would untie her – at some point, surely she would be off this horse and on her own feet.

Soon.

And as the world narrowed until black consumed it all, she heard the man beside her say softly, "I _am_ sorry, Princess Merida."


	8. Chapter 7: Conflict of Terms

**A/N: Brave, its characters, and its images are ©Disney Pixar.**

**A note on the rating: Definitely trying to keep to K+, but am drawing off of themes from fairy tales, some past Disney movies, and several pieces of children's literature – and I know, especially with movies, that what is onscreen can seem tame compared to a written account (for instance, think of writing out Princess Jasmine's seduction of Jafar, or even Elinor's near beheading) and some pieces of children's literature aren't tame at all (I just finished reading one of the Redwall books to my son, and had completely forgotten how violent they are). If any of you with more experience on this site would recommend this to be a T, please let me know.**

**Thanks again, readers and reviewers! To have people reading – and especially, those of you taking time to review – is such a wonderful encouragement. Thank you so much, and in particular, thank you gabthebomb, Andyouthought…, Concetta, Graystripe64, IneedaCaskett, and Awena-Sachi! You guys are wonderful. :)**

* * *

The Bow and the Stone

Book 1: Dragon Rising

Chapter 7: Conflict of Terms

* * *

Harris was beginning to believe this was one of Hubert's worst ideas ever.

It had seemed brilliant at the time, as they'd peeked out from beneath their father's bearskin cloak and watched him limp off to the barracks, and then caught sight of the lords' sons preparing their horses. The three bulky saddle-packs had been set some distance from the young lords, and Hubert had smirked in way Harris knew all too well.

"After all, why should we be stuck at home while everyone else goes off to save Mum and Meri'?" he'd said. Over Maudie and a smoldering castle, an adventure seemed the better choice.

It was a good thing the triplets were still small for their age; they never would've pulled it off if they'd been the size of other five-year old boys. But now, tucked deep inside each of the three bedrolls (the carefully-packed supplies inside had been unceremoniously and quickly dumped out of sight), and thrown across the backs of the young lords' horses, and after rocking and jolting along for hours and hours … Harris would've preferred breakfast and a bed.

He also _really_ needed to duck behind a tree for a moment.

To cap it all off, through the little tunnel at the end of Aneirin's bedroll, Harris could see the tips of Hamish's boots poking out of the tightly rolled blanket behind Ian. Knowing his brother, Hamish was snoozing happily away – but if he slipped out any further, the game would be over before they'd seen much besides countless trees and bits of moor ... and of course, a whole lot of fog – and _that _they could see any old day.

"Och, blast it all," Gavan Macintosh was saying. He had taken the lead after extolling his skills as a tracker, although Harris suspected the other two hadn't argued simply for expediency's sake. But the morning light had died away to a hazy gray, and then into something thick like clotted cream while they trudged through meadows, and then in to a murky twilight as the forest closed around them again. Even the air was oddly chilled; summer seemed to be arguing with autumn.

"How can ye see where ye're goin'?" Ian finally asked, and Hamish's boots slid out of sight as the lord drew his horse to a stop. Aneirin halted, too, affording Harris a close-up view of Ian's horse's neck. Harris could have sworn the horse dipped his head and looked straight at him for a moment, before snorting in disapproval.

"I can't," said Gavan, clearly frustrated. "The tracks – they're all over the place here. Lots of 'em lead straight off into the woods, but more of 'em go on straight south. But blast if I can see past me nose which is the better way."

Ian might've said something about the size of Gavan's nose, but Aneirin spoke over him. "'T'would be unwise tae split up – but aye, they'n could've taken 'er off in a smaller group, fae better speed."

Or if she'd been too much trouble for them to all handle, Harris added silently. Which would've been a very Merida-like thing to do.

"But why?" Ian asked. "They're makin' better time than we are, but with thirty men more an' tired horses."

Harris recalled earlier that they'd found signs of the soldiers' faster pace – something about the warmth of the horses' droppings, which Harris thought was thoroughly revolting, and equally fascinating.

Aneirin grunted in a disgusted sort of way. "Surprised we 'aven't seen some horses on th' ground along the way, th' way they'n been ridin' 'em."

"We'll most likely just get lost if we wander off in the woods in this fog," Gavan said.

Harris could see Ian nervously tighten his hold on the reins. The beast stamped its hoof irritably. "These woods aren't the safest to get lost in, ye know," he said. "The main tracks lead south, aye? So we'll just go on south, an' hope for the best."

"Aye," agreed Aneirin, "but wei'll lead our'n horses 'til this clears." Harris could feel the whole saddle pack shift as the big man slid off his saddle.

Gavan grumbled again about the fog and the lost time as he and Ian dismounted, but Aneirin pointed out that at least they were moving. And there was no help for the weather.

"Bloody unnatural," said Gavan darkly. "'Tis not yet noon, and looks like sundown."

Ian hmmphed. "Not so unnatural – _you_ don't live in the forests, aye?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Gavan shot back, immediately on the defense.

"Nothin'," cut in Aneirin in a tired sort of way. "You lieve in the moorlands. We lieve in the forests. The fog is all-aways like'n this in the forest. No use goin' at each other."

"Aye," added Ian.

After a moment, Gavan breathed out a disgruntled sigh. "Aye." He paused before going on in a rush, "I just wish we had more than bits of mist and trees and moss to fight."

"No help for that, is there?" Ian asked. His face passed disconcertingly close to where Harris peaked out at the world. The young man was squinting into the surrounding gray, his hand clenched tightly around a steel-tipped pike as he led his horse past Aneirin's.

"Wei'll find 'em, an' they'n will regret comin' into our lands," Aneirin said gruffly.

But before they'd walked another minute, tree limb snapped. The three lords froze. There was complete silence for a moment – the deep, disconcerting silence that always came with fog – and then, clearly, the stamp of a hoof from off in the half-light.

Aneirin moved quickly past the others – or Harris assumed he did, as the bodies of the two other horses (and the other lords' heads) zipped by – and took a stand at the front of their little troupe. "Who'n goes there?" he called out.

There was another moment of silence, and then hooves thudded slowly and steadily through the fog – although it couldn't have been a very big or heavy horse, from the sound of them.

"Och, do put that thing away," called back the unmistakable sound of a man's voice, weedy and cracked with age. "Ye'll put someone's eye out."

"You!" said Gavan in surprise. "What're you doin' out here?"

But Ian gave a yelp, and Harris could hear the pained grunt of – someone. Harris was beginning to hate his little tunnel of the world; it wasn't nearly big enough. "Aneirin!" shouted Gavan in clear astonishment. "He's just an old man!"

"You'n knew somethin' was 'bout tae happen!" Harris didn't think he'd ever heard Aneirin's voice that low or harsh. It was a bit … intimidating. And surprising. "Are you'n some lowlander, sent tae spy on us? Did _you'n_ poison the guards?"

"If ye're dissatisfied with that wee gift for the princess, I didn't promise that _she'd_ be happy with it, ye know," gasped the old man, who seemed to be struggling for breath.

"What gift?" Gavan asked sharply, sounding both piqued and baffled.

"Go on and put the man down – the three wee princes said the woodsmith did somethin' to the guards, 'Eirin," Ian said. "I heard 'em talk to the king before the barber-surgeon arrived."

There was a moment's pause, and then boots thudded against the ground. The man coughed, cleared his throat, and muttered a few choice words about young men and their follies.

"Ye still have to answer his questions, ye know," Gavan said.

"Alright, alright," the man grumbled. "Y'know, I travel all over, in and out o' the mountains – and I even told ye so, laddie —" Harris heard Aneirin mumble something – "So I don't consider meself a Highlander or a Lowlander – just a humble ironsmith."

"Humble smith my—" started Gavan.

"So ye _were_ aidin' them lowlanders!" pressed Aneirin, cutting Gavan off.

"I never said the like, laddie," said the smith.

"That's nae an answer, man."

The smith snorted audibly. "Clever ye are, aren't ye?"

Harris heard an 'ooomph!' and wondered if Aneirin had picked him up again. Harris would've – if he were Aneirin's size – just for argument's sake. It would be a handy way to get one's point across. "Alright!" the man gasped again. "I didn't know – I'd only heard that prophecy in the week, last!" Again, boots hit the forest floor, but with a bit more force this time.

"What _of_ that prophecy, aye?" asked Gavan.

"What of it?" the man replied testily. "Do what you will. I was just passin' on the warning."

"Then why bother tellin' us?" asked Ian.

There was another pause. "Laddie, I was born in these 'ere mountains. I bonnie well believe I've lived long enough to help some folks out if I wish to."

The contrite silence was broken by Aneirin. "Who'd ye be hearin' it from?"

"I already told ye that, back at the green. An old man."

"How 'bout a name, aye?"

"Oh, mine? How polite ye are— _Alright, alright!" _the smith groused. "If I wanted to be that high off the ground, I wouldn't have a pony, aye?"

"A _name, _you ol' boulder," Gavan ground out.

"Eh, he's known as Myrddin. Ye happy?"

Harris heard Aneirin mutter something about being far from it as Ian spoke up. "What's _your_ name, smith?"

"Why, thank ye for askin'. Ye can call me Dougal. And if this wee inquisition be over with, have you three noticed somethin' odd about yer saddlepacks?"

* * *

"Tonight you are to dine with his lordship, m'lady."

There was something about the term "lordship" that utterly rankled Elinor's nerves. It was bad enough to have been trussed up like some Christmas goose and hauled south along the coastline in the company of twenty overly-ripe men. But to have the servants mince around the room, referring to a man she'd never seen as "his lordship"... Well.

"M'lady?"

Elinor didn't move from her spot at the window. Churlish, perhaps, but Elinor didn't bother pretending that her current chambers were anything but a prison – albeit, a very elegant prison. The rich furnishings and exquisitely-made fabrics spoke plainly about the castle's owner; whoever the "lordship" happened to be, he was inordinately well-heeled.

And well-armied.

Below her, in the castle yard, a steady stream of dusty, travel-worn soldiers and their sweat-streaked mounts were pausing to dismount before disappearing into a high-roofed stable. Even from the height of her tower window, she could see damage on the soldier's armor and exhaustion that weighed heavily on their shoulders and horses. They obviously hadn't returned from a routine patrol. Elinor's stomach twisted with a now-familiar pang of anxiety.

_Oh, Fergus ... Merida ... My precious boys ..._

For two long days, she'd had no way of knowing whether her kingdom – her home – had truly survived. Her only recollection of that night was of gleaming armor and men with torches – and she remembered the younger lasses screaming, and the ladies behind her – and Merida gone – and then quite a bit of pain and darkness. Her head still ached.

On top of it all, her crown was missing.

A soldier in the boat had repeatedly told her that her king and subjects had been left unharmed. While that might've assured her under other circumstances, there was the minor detail that her hands were tied together.

"Ah," he'd added. "We're just assurin' yer audience with his lordship, an' all. 'Tis quite an honor, m'lady queen – 'e's a splendid lord, eh."

At that point, she'd let her displeasure known, and the soldiers had become far more disgruntled the further south they'd traveled. By the time they'd rowed up a river and through a channel into the castle's inner yard – she'd tried hard not to be impressed – they'd become sullen and silent, and disappeared from view as soon as they were discharged by their captain.

But if they couldn't deal well with her wrath, they certainly wouldn't stand a chance against Fergus'.

"They're certainly impressive, aren't they?"

Elinor finally turned from the window to find the maid (who reminded Elinor fiercely of Maudie) watching her.

"I've never seen such a sight in all my life," the woman went on. Elinor belatedly realized she was referring to the soldiers below. "When his lordship first arrived in our province, 'twas all a bit alarming – but we've been ever so thankful he's here!"

Elinor found that hard to believe. The soldiers didn't seem to be the most pleasant sort of people.

"Now, please, m'lady queen," the maid said, gesturing to Elinor's bed, where she had spread a silvery, richly-detailed gown. "You mustn't be late. His lordship won't stand for it."

Superlative manners had their downsides, Elinor realized, as the woman assisted her into the blasted dress that was _not_ her favorite green, and then she was directed to a dressing table where the maid tackled Elinor's long hair, winding it into something intricate atop her head and down her back. By the time the woman was done, at least five other serving-women had crowded into the room, all of whom seemed to delight in fawning over a lady.

"Oooh, she is lovely – a true queen!" one whispered to another, watching Elinor with bright eyes. Elinor gritted her teeth. The peculiarity of it all, despite the girls' enthusiasm, was beginning to wear on her.

Her maid finished threading tiny jewels into her hair and pressed a large, ornate hand mirror into Elinor's hands. "Why, you're so pale, m'lady! Go on, have a look at yourself – you're still quite the most beautiful creature we've ever laid eyes on." Elinor gave a quick glance to the mirror. It showed what she expected: a woman blanched white, further washed by the colorless gown (she looked like a heaven-forsaken ice queen, and the gray streaks in her hair seemed even more pronounced).

There was also too much fear in her eyes – which would never do. Elinor steeled herself as she stood, and the serving-women fell back with soft sighs of delight.

Elinor had the distinct impression that ladies of any rank hadn't occupied this castle for some time.

It was time to use that to her advantage.

"I'm quite aware," Elinor said, smiling warmly at them, noticing for the first time that they weren't much older than girls, "that the servants of any grand castle know the lords and ladies very well, sometimes better than the nobles do of themselves."

The servants all giggled and cast knowing glances between them. "That we do, m'lady," said Elinor's maid.

Elinor cast her eyes downward and tilted her head just so. "It is troublesome to be at such a disadvantage, meself. You see, I never knew such a place was here – and this whole land and this—lord—is quite foreign to me."

One of the women sighed wistfully and murmured something about Elinor's voice, while the first maid smiled reassuringly at Elinor. "You'll have nothing to fear from our Lord Dagon, m'lady. He's ever so cultured and pleasant."

With an odd habit of abducting queens, Elinor thought bitterly.

"Oh, yes," another added eagerly. "He's only just returned to Vortigern, this spring past. The soldiers've said his lordship's been all the way to the Holy Lands and back!"

"Oh?" Elinor said, her stomach sinking. A well-traveled lordship.

"And his son," said one, a pretty and rosy-cheeked lass, and the younger women giggled. "No one knew his lordship'd had a son – but the lordship'n't been seen for nigh thirty years, and as soon as the lordship's father passed on – bless the old Dagon's soul – the new Dagon and the young lord took to the castle and made it quite so splendid than ever before!"

"That's when we all came to be here," said her maid. "The old lord never called his lands and serfs into service, but –oh! 'tis grand to be here, with such gracious ladies the likes of you –a queen! We've never met a queen before – or even a noble lady – nain't to how to behave 'round one, either. But you're ever so kind!" The woman beamed at Elinor and curtsied deeply, a move echoed by the others.

Elinor wasn't quite sure what to make of that information, or of these women, but before she could ask another question, the brief silence was broken by a man clearing his throat. Startled, she turned to see a soldier by her door, his eyes fixed firmly on the stone floor. He was oddly dark, and he seemed exhausted and sour, although the armor he wore was clean and his black hair still looked damp from a wash.

"You are to be escorted to dinner now, Queen Elinor," he said, his voice so thickly accented that Elinor found herself straining to understand him. She nodded curtly at him, knowing she'd have to wait until that night to glean any other bits of information from the women, and swept past the soldier into the corridor.

And, of course, then was forced to wait for him to lead her on. The castle had a ridiculous (in her opinion) amount of side-corridors and ante-chambers –and before long, she was thoroughly lost. Finally, the soldier led her through a pair of high, arched doors. The wide stone hall beyond was lit by torch-filled sconces and several heavy-wrought candelabras, and she could see a purpling sky through the narrow windows. A long table dominated the room, second only in grandeur to the massive fireplace that took up most of the far wall.

A tall, lean figure lounged close to the fireplace, a goblet resting comfortably in his hand. As Elinor entered, he straightened and inclined his head toward her escort. "Now you may retire, Antar," he said, his voice echoing the length of the room.

The soldier stood at attention for a brief moment before turning and disappearing, leaving Elinor alone with the famed lordship.

"Lord Dagon, I presume?" she asked, not at all tempted to step further into the hall.

The man smiled languidly, swirling the contents of his goblet and watching her with the studied air of a man sizing up a challenge.

As queen, Elinor had made a study of reading and understanding the people around her with a single glance or a chance word. This man, she realized, was dangerous. He radiated the energy of a drawn bow, but with an easy grace and awareness of self that immediately explained why so many had been drawn to him, apparently like moths to a flame. She would have to be careful.

"Queen Elinor," he replied. "The gowns of Normandy have only now found a worthy possessor."

"You have been gone far too long from the Isles if you've forgotten our dear winter's chill," Elinor said, flicking her wrist. The thin material fluttered against her arm.

"I was a small child when I left this land," he said, straightening and taking several measured steps closer to her. "As I recall, my departure was during a snowstorm."

Elinor gave him a practiced smile. "Are we here to share childhood stories, then?"

"Far from it," Dagon said, returning her smile – although it was anything but pleasant.

Elinor tipped her head as if in thought as she slowly walked to the windows. The dining hall obviously faced north; past the outer parapets, she could see mountains rising into the darkening sky, some of them wreathed in low clouds. They seemed deceptively close. "Then perhaps the weather? The autumn seems to be coming early, this year."

"Such civility, my dear queen."

Elinor lifted an eyebrow, turning back to face him across the table. "Civility could be considered the backbone of nobility, Lord Dagon. But I must remind you that I am certainly not _your_ dear queen."

"Ah, so you believe the Highlands and the Lowlands should never unite, even under a queen of such remarkable beauty and intellect as yourself?"

"A fruitless endeavor, Lord Dagon, considering our history. Moreover, our kingdom was one born of choice, not of force. Your preference has been clear."

"My preferences are, as always, changeable as the wind. How could my mind remain indifferent in the presence of such an uncommon lady as yourself?"

"You should not be so forward with your flattery. My husband would be sure to take offense."

Lord Dagon leaned nonchalantly against one of the many high-backed chairs. "Ah, but I trust he will take offense. However else would I tempt the fabled warriors of the Highlands to come down from their mountains?"

"Ink and parchment come to mind."

"Such things cannot always be trusted for expediency."

"If one were known for courtesy, such niceties would certainly be expected," she said, turning back to the mountains, which were still gilded by the setting sun.

"Courtesy," he drawled, "can only extend so far as to not impede expectations."

Elinor huffed in disbelief. "Your expectations seem wildly out of hand if you would gladly barter expediency for your head."

"I'd heard of the Highland Queen's skill in diplomacy," he said, humor in his voice. "But had not known of her bloodthirstiness."

"My tongue is not so sharp as my husband's sword, Lord Dagon," she replied. "I suggest you make your intentions known."

"My Queen, we've only just met," he said, chuckling. "Please, let us at least wait for our dinner companions before discussing such details."

Elinor turned to face him, her patience snapping. "We will not! You dare invite others here to dine, as if I am some prize to be paraded about?"

"Heaven forbid that I would attempt such low practices. No, my dear queen. While you _are_ a prize, I aim only to entertain you, as _courtesy_ dictates. At least – at this current juncture."

"Entertain? How so – by abduction? You are truly mad if you think you haven't brought war on your people!"

"All assumptions, my dear queen," he replied. "Please, would you like something to drink?" He moved to a silver decanter, where three goblets similar to his own stood nearby. "Wine from grape vineyards – particularly delectable from a duchy called Burgundy. Quite a bit more subtle – and complex – than that from elderberries, I believe."

Elinor narrowed her eyes at him. "I prefer honey-mead."

Dagon tsked softly as he poured, refilling his own goblet last. "Temper, dear queen. I've heard some phenomenal stories of the Highland Queen – truly unbelievable – but I don't believe a bit of impatience will _bear_ you through this very well."

Elinor felt, for the first time on arriving at the castle, a true trickle of deep unease. To think that Dagon would have heard of the tale, let alone _believe_ it …

She quickly hid her discomfort behind a practiced, haughty glare. "You would be so bold—!"

Lord Dagon placed his goblet on the table with a solid clunk. "Yes, I am so bold, Queen Elinor. You Highlanders believe you are safe in your mountains and your castles, but _you_ are quite obviously no longer in your mountains or your castles. Yet that little fact is not the only reason I believe you will cooperate. And if I'm not mistaken, my other esteemed guest has arrived."

Elinor did hear footsteps, but obviously two sets – both rapid and uneven – and through the arched doors Merida suddenly appeared, her arm clenched tightly in the hand of a tall, hard-faced young man. She wore a russet dress as fine as Elinor's, but her face was flushed with anger and confusion, and her bright hair was wet and lank. Even as Elinor watched, Merida tried to escape, twisting madly in the man's grip and obviously trying her best to crush his foot with her heel.

"Merida," Elinor breathed, barely registering that her voice came out more like a sob, or that she was half-running to her daughter.

But she did hear Dagon's words, meant clearly for her.

"Already a lovely couple, wouldn't you agree?"


End file.
